


Stultus

by TheAwkwardEnthusiast



Series: Stultus [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cassette Family Dynamics, Enemies to Lovers, Host Mech Lore, Implied/Referenced Torture, It's essentially a JazzWave fic, JazzWave Is The Main Pairing, Lovers To Enemies, M/M, Mech Preg, Mild Gore, Multi, Murder, Non-Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Political Conspiracies, Post-War, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rare Pairings, Rebuilding, Revolution, Social Hierarchy, Spark Bonds, Sparklings, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Undercover Operations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2019-12-25 13:48:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 34
Words: 295,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18262565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAwkwardEnthusiast/pseuds/TheAwkwardEnthusiast
Summary: “Life…it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury; signifying nothing...”—William ShakespeareWhen the Cybertronian war is brought to an unprecedented end on Earth, many soldiers on both factions find themselves rejoicing in the newfound peace that finally brings about the reconstruction of their damaged homeworld. From the ground up, a new government is instilled to keep the peace and their society slowly begins to blossom once more. But there are bots unwilling to settle underneath the new status quo and Optimus Prime and Megatron find themselves battling a war much different than the one they previously did.In an effort to save their world, Jazz embarks on an undercover operation that has the potential to either solidify the new society’s foundation or topple it into dust. It's a deceptively simple mission. Jazz has had worse during the war. But when a familiar face is revealed in the enemy ranks, the saboteur finds himself juggling the fate of two worlds in his hands and he soon comes to realize that it's no longer just his own life that hangs in the balance anymore.





	1. All Things Must End

_War has a habit of bringing out the worst in people._

When pitted against each other, individuals do whatever it takes to ensure their own survival, often times sacrificing morality, ethics and their souls just to be able to be able to live another day. Hands get bloodied, hearts get broken…lives get torn apart. In all histories, the cycle of hatred and war repeats itself every generation, with a different scapegoat taking the helm of all the people’s dissension. In the beginning, people fought to prove their self-worth…to give meaning to a life that was seen as a number by those in power. Then, it escalated to beliefs; some killed for their religion, others grossly misinterpreted it and created false deities and ideologies that brainwashed those too stupid to think for themselves…and those too wrapped up in despair to care.

The Cybertronian civil war was different from any war anyone could ever conjure up in their mind; it was a battle for survival, engulfing the entire planet with its cloud of dissension and toppling millennia of culture, language and civilization. It certainly had parallels with other galactic conflicts in the sense that the worst was brought out of those involved; librarians turned into warriors, revolutionaries became renegades and everyone became murderers. But amidst it all, there were some who had the best brought out of them because of the war; the threat of imminent death, of annihilation…forced bots to come to terms with their inner dreams and aspirations.

To admit the truths, they never dared to.

Jazz was a mech who found his calling in war. It was ironic, really, to feel so alive in the midst of battle, where the rancid sweetness of Energon permeated the air and the dying screams of bots rang in his audials as he cut up his enemies and watched his comrades fall.

But there he was.

Smiling and spouting jokes as the large burly mech swung his energy hammer with his only remaining arm, optics damaged and apertures spewing Energon with each weak swing. Behind him, a new recruit let out a wail of agony that was cut short by the sound of rapid gunfire and in a few moments, Jazz’s opponent was on the floor in pieces. Bright burgundy colored plates already greying before they even touched the ground and face forever frozen with that determined grimace as he lunged and aimed for a shot at the infamous Autobot saboteur.

His Energon pulsed in his fuel lines, his Spark whirled like a supernova star in his chassis, causing his frame to warm up and expel blistering huffs of air through his vents. His shoulder hurt, his knee bolt was slag but oh Primus, he was alive. Maybe it was the thrill of surviving, of being able to engage against others and emerge as the undeniable victor; or perhaps the saboteur’s reasons were much more ominous, involving a deep-seated fascination with the macabre, a love for violence that could only be cultivated in the throes of war.

Or maybe he was just relieved to be out of the gutters and back alleys for once. Away from the wandering optics of strangers and obscene infatuations of politicians and seedy authority figures who should’ve been responsible for ridding the streets of such an industry in the first place. He didn’t know. There wasn’t much opportunity to philosophize about motives when you were busy infiltrating enemy camps and inciting interrogations that made the Prime’s vitals coil and the former Enforcers twitch with apprehension. 

It wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t fulfilling. But it was _something._  

Grotesque as it sounded, a deep part of Jazz never wanted the war to end. He liked the purpose he carried, the authority his position as head of special operations and subsequent third in command of the Autobot army gave him…it made him feel important. Silly emotions, of course, but a heady pleasure when you come from nothing and manage to work your way to be worth something.

But like all things, the eons long war came to a seemingly inevitable end. It had been sudden and unexpected on behalf of both factions. One orn they were fighting the fiercest of battles, losing comrades at a faster rate than ever before and then suddenly, silence. No Decepticon activity for months, no SOS’ on the Autobot radio frequencies from humans fighting against giant metal titans or some military authority ranting about some rampant Decepticon experiment gone wrong. It was odd and more than once, Jazz had petitioned to infiltrate the underwater base of their enemy, eager to learn just what was capable of quieting the warlord whose indomitable words had been enough to invoke violence and plunge them into civil war.

But the Prime had refused and odd suddenly seemed too meek a word to describe their predicament. _Scandalous_ , Ironhide suggested; _preposterous_ had been Perceptor’s input and while Jazz would have normally smiled at that alliteration, he couldn’t be inclined to muster up anything other than _uncanny._ An armistice was borne seemingly out of thin air by the Decepticon leader and accepted graciously by the Prime over an open communication line with both armies present to observe. Hell subsequently broke loose on the Ark, with everyone crowded in the main communications room yelling profanities and trying to convince their leader (and probably themselves) that this was a trap.

Optimus found a way to keep the peace, of course; he always did. Before Jazz could even put together a plan, peace talks were being scheduled and Jazz found himself sequestered between Soundwave and Prowl, Megatron staring at him expectantly across the circular table as he and everyone else waited for his promise of cooperation. He wanted to laugh, lean back and prop up his pedes on the table as he made some witty remark. This was too bizarre. But he turned to look at Prowl, who gave him a small nod and he found himself agreeing despite his protocols screaming nay and his Spark thumping erratically as Soundwave shifted beside him (and his battle protocols whirred to life) and negotiations began.

Jazz remembered the end of the war vividly; it was like a scene out of one of those old human western movies, where the bad guys and the good guys stand around in some Primus forsaken desert, eyeing each other silently while waiting for the other to make the first move. The only difference was that there were no more good and bad guys anymore, at least not on paper; there was only them and us, with the possibility of “we” lurking between the lines like some elusive subtext.  It had been a small ordeal, with Optimus taking him and Prowl and Megatron taking his rightful second and third.

They stood feet apart from one another, each of their counterparts directly in their line of sight. Megatron stared at Optimus with an inscrutable look, optic ridges furrowed and lips pursed into a thin line. But his optics lacked the fire of hatred from before; they were softer, warmer and if Jazz dared to be innocuous, he’d go as far to say there was a wistful glimmer in those ruby depths that was mirrored by the former police officer.

Starscream and Prowl sized each other up, wings and door wings flared and hiked up proud along their backs in obvious displays of power. The Vosian held that arrogant smirk as always, hands on his hips and head canted as if daring the other to step over the imaginary line they were all toeing. Prowl, ever logical, resisted the temptation to incite the Seeker’s fury and stood silent but proud, crossed arms and tilted chin relaying that he was more than willing to play the other mech’s game.

Jazz eyed his own Deception warily, though his stance was probably the most nonchalant of the six. Hands clasped behind his helm, and ankles crossed as he rested all his weight on one pede. He gazed up at the communications officer, grinning when the boxy blue mech shifted his weight in response to the saboteur’s scrutiny. Soundwave was stoic as ever but it was obvious from the steady calm in his EM field that he was not on edge about the whole ordeal; there was no expected treachery, no underhanded motives (not even from Starscream, who everyone knew would probably attempt to spearhead some selfish reconstruction effort for his own self interests). There was a smidgen of awkwardness in that energy field but as Jazz tried to expand his own to root out the cause of such an unruly emotion, Soundwave snapped his back rather suddenly and a knowing (dare he say slightly amused?) red-visored stare was leveled in his direction.

_Okay, then._

A deep invent allowed him to catch a whiff of the communication’s officer’s polish and he couldn’t help the satisfaction that curled in his tanks at the aroma. It was fresh and light, not a brand Jazz recognized but certainly something he would ask of his former-rival-turned-ally when things became official. Conversation starters and all that.

A few words were spoken, datapads handed around so they could sign the treaty they had labored over day and night for what seemed like months and just like that, it was done.

Megatron took a step forward and offered Optimus his hand, palm up in expectation of a reciprocal handshake. With no hesitation Optimus took it and a grin parted the warlord’s faceplates. “To the restoration of Cybertron and our race, Optimus.”

“To _peace_ ,” Optimus replied, voice soft.

Both leaders turned to regard them, no doubt expecting them to mimic their action. It took a considerable amount of effort on behalf of both parties but in the end Prowl and Starscream shared a firm handshake that left both with grimaces and equally dented finger plating.

Jazz extended his servo first, helm canted to one side as he lifted his blue visor to meet Soundwave’s own red one. For a moment, the blue mech looked at his servo rather stiffly but he quickly nodded and extended his own servo to clasp them together. They were unusually warm, Soundwave’s hands; despite their boxy shape and cold coloring, they held Jazz’s fingers with a softness that was unbecoming of a mech that had fame for his brutish strength and tactics on the battlefield.

It took Jazz a moment to squeeze reassuringly, give their conjoined servos a firm shake and part with yet another cursory nod of their helms.

Jazz’s servo tingled slightly from the contact but he ignored it, shrugging it off as an involuntary reaction of his battle computer reacting to the other mech’s presence. They were still enemies, after all, if not on paper then most certainly in each other’s sparks and processors. You didn’t just forget the fall of Crystal City where Starscream’s armada bombed what had once been the forefront of Cybertron’s scientific innovation or the Uraya Incident where a wave of mind controlled Autobots were forced to battle their own brethren at the behest of Soundwave’s telepathic capabilities. And truthfully, none of them could forget the obscure methods Autobot special operations employed to all those Decepticons that were captured and whose bodies were never able to be recovered.

Atrocities on both sides, hard wired lines of instinctual battle coding that would only ease with time and exposure in prolonged periods to the peace both sides shakily agreed to, it wasn’t going to be easy. Jazz smiled throughout the meetings and the exchange, EM field nonchalant and visor brimming with cheer. But his Spark twisted with every hurdle both leaders managed to jump over and when Earth was left behind and badges were gradually disavowed among the gleaming alloy of a newly rebuilt Cybertron, Jazz felt the anxiety slowly return. It was stifling, this fresh air that had replaced the smog and pollution the war had brought about thanks to the combined environmental efforts of Wheeljack and Shockwave. The warmth of the planet’s star on his plating was scorching and more than once, the saboteur found himself stepping into the shade of a building or ducking underneath a vendor’s tent with the sole intent of escaping that bright happy glow. Physical difficulties aside, all things paled in comparison to the saboteur’s acclimation to the social atmosphere of the newly rebuilt planet.

He had modest accommodations in Iacon, housed near the compound where Optimus and subsequent Lord High Protector Megatron attempted to outline the start of what would be Cybertron’s newfound government. They took heed of the human political custom of democracy, placing themselves as temporary figureheads while encouraging all capable individuals to contemplate running for offices that sought to moderate the basic infrastructure of the planet. Checks and balances, limited terms, rights of the people. In theory, it sounded plausible and was certainly a step up from the creation of a Council that allowed only a few select individuals to have a say so on what passes in terms of laws and proclamations.

To nobody’s surprise, none of those who had made up the basis of Autobot and Decepticon command expressed any interest in allocating permanent positions in the new government. Managing a war was one thing, Prowl told Jazz during one of their private get togethers, but managing a world and a free-thinking population was something else entirely. The new system needed the input of the population to operate and creating a buffer to regulate the public influx was a task few bots had the aptitude to tackle. There were several bots the Enforcer had suggested to Optimus and Megatron and Jazz had agreed with all of them but unfortunately to all, none accepted the responsibilities when approached. To Jazz, it was oddly ironic. They’d fought so long for this…vision to become a reality and now that it was, everyone scrambled to be as far away as possible.

Jazz wasn’t one to condone such actions; he himself had run away as well. Fighting was so much easier. It was strange to wander through the streets without letting his processor trail off as it planned out battle tactics and mapped out possible escape routes. But what was even stranger were the bars.

During the war, bars had been his sanctuary. Places he could sit and drink and forget about everything; occasionally someone dashing and funny enough would cross his path and they’d stumble off to some private corner of the world and interface those lonely nights away. But bars were no longer what Jazz remembered. Without the war, there was no easy reason to resort to for the drinks and the easy ‘faces. 

Bartenders looked at him curiously, no understandings in their optics. The few patrons alongside him eyed the growing pile of cubes and whispered behind his back, some muttering something about Autobot guilt (as if they knew, they only speculated cause he still wore his own badge on his frame like some forgotten memoir) while others speculated about PTSD. They didn’t understand that Enex simply tasted so fragging good. That the absence of gunfire and shouts and death were grating on his audials and his plate crawled with the cleanliness and polish that went unmarred every time he went outside of his abode.

Sometimes he let his optics wander to the bot beside him and some smiled, warm and comforting. But none of them gave into his advances. Jazz smiled when he saw them respectfully nod and walk away, hope in their optics as they stare ahead, a bounce in their step. You needed to give them a reason, Jazz thought mournfully as he watched a particularly handsome mech walk out of the bar (alone, much to the saboteur’s chagrin). A reason that was stronger than the lure of the bright open sky, the fresh air, the newly rebuilt society of what they once had.

Unfortunately for Jazz, his reasons were lost in the war.

And it didn’t seem like he’d be getting them back anytime soon.


	2. Odd Acquaintances

_“I don’t dance,_

_But here I am,_

_Spinning you around_

_And around in circles..._

 

—Lee Brice, 'I Don’t Dance'

 

Axel was nervous.

Nervous and tired and _panicking._

Things had started out so great; business was booming with production finally getting back into swing once the Prime had signed off on the paperwork allowing him to operate in the vicinity and the insecurities of his workers had all but disappeared. Energon refineries were necessary in a post-war society, particularly in the less developed regions that were still under reconstruction or in desperate need of gentrification.

The Prime had been cautious; normally Iacon and Nova Cronum and Crystal City would have been on the list of being reconstructed first but the Lord High Protector had been insistent on having the less prosperous areas being fixed first and Tarn had managed to be among the first cities to have a working infrastructure. Axel had been a businessman before the war had come in and torn everything to the Pit; he’d had a hand in almost all kinds of enterprises, from alt-mode reconstruction to Enex filtration and he’d missed nothing because he had everything.

But then the war happened.

Now, Axel was a businessman whose razor sharp wit and verbose diction had him compared to a Sharkticon on numerous occasions by his peers but he wasn’t as much of a fighting machine as his namesake. He fled before the war had even touched Tarn and had his weight in credits to hopefully keep himself in business elsewhere. But space travel was not as grandiose as the moving pictures showcased and it was difficult to keep a hold of your assets when Povians pointed those ridiculously advanced plasma guns in your faceplates as they pilfered your supplies and left you bare in the middle of space.

But fate had smiled down upon him and he’d been able to make it back in time to petition to make an Energon refinery in his old hometown. And things had been going great…but then he just had to get involved with _them_.

Still, he couldn’t bemoan his less than intelligent business transactions at the moment. He had a job to do, one single job that was never ever paid off; he had to grab his few necessities and snag the first transport out of Tarn. He’d make do from there, maybe see if that stupid idiot Nexus is still willing to make do on that favor he owes him. He didn’t even bother turning on the lights when he wormed his way into the small dimly lit office complex, groping his way through the hallways until he all but crashed into the glass door of his own office. Shaky digits fumbled with his keys until the locks were undone and the familiar polished smell of the inside of his office greeted him, slightly easing his anxiety.

Green optics went to the only visible part of the room, the safe with its light blue screen and glowing keypad. All but sliding to a stop before it, he punched in the code and began to scoop out the provisions inside. Energon cubes, data chips, Shanix…there were a couple holo ID cards with different identities, remnants of his old life before the war. Maybe they’d still be good for crossing the interstate borders if the underground turned out to be too risky.

Dammit. Just thinking the word made his plating crawl and his vitals churned, hot bubbling anger coursing through his fuel lines.

He shouldn’t have gotten involved with those freaks.

“In a hurry, mah mech?”

Axel couldn’t help the squeak that escaped him and when he whirled around, several bars of Shanix fell through his fingers and clattered noisly to the floor. A small beep sounded and a thin blue band of light suddenly appeared on the other side of the room, illuminating a sharp smirk that was brought into greater focus when the intruder turned on the lamo beside the desk. White paint job, blue and black decals covering a pair of strong shoulders and pedes that were propped up on the desk like some heathen lounging in his own quarters. But it was those audio horns and azure visor that caught Axel’s attention, for they were the dead giveaway to the mech’s infamous identity.

Axel’s Energon ran cold in his fuel lines and he struggled to keep his knees from buckling underneath him.

“What are you--“ he stepped back, nearly tripping over his own credit chips on the floor. “What are you doing here?”

A smile was offered in turn, very clearly amused. “I was contemplating the meaning of life but then I got bored and started to recite the Povian glyph system and lost track of time.” He leaned back a little more in the chair, clasping his fingers behind his helm and stretching rather obscenely. “I was starting to wonder if maybe I’d broken into the wrong office.”

With a resigned sigh, Axel lowered his arms, servos curled into fists around the meager Shanix and credit chips he’d managed to glean from his safe before being interrupted. He knew who the mech was and despite his own lack of participation in the war, it wasn’t difficult to keep up with the turn of events happening back home. He’d seen leaked holovids on the DataNet, bought Petrax news reports that were mostly gossip but carried enough truth to be worth the money and slowly, things began to piece together. Many things were reported, from massacres to faulty attempts at diplomacy and politics. But the thing that had caught Axel’s attention the most were the rumors of Autobot special operations; now, the Decepticons had their scare tactics that kept their own soldiers in line and their enemies at a cautious distance. The DJD was the Cons' most infamous mythos and even in the remote sectors of space, whispers were said about the Cybertronian kill squad who were relentless in their pursuit of defectors and cowards. They were terrifying, relevant enough to make even the most cocky afthead think twice before boasting about their own strength.

But the Autobots weren’t so innocent and they too shared their own boogeymen. Special Operations was a subsidy of the army that was common knowledge; bots knew it existed and they were well aware of the bots that made up its sparse hierarchy. But nobot was rapt enough to keep track of where these bots were; sure, one could feel intelligent about capturing a screenshot on the security tapes of the infamous mirage agent or the saboteur. But only the smart bots knew that you never caught these mechs unless they actually wanted to be caught…in which case you (and everyone else in your base) were pretty much scrap.

Axel knew Jazz by reputation only; the saboteur was infamous for making dramatic entrances and escaping difficult situations with a bang. And then there was the torture…

The sound of snapping digits brought Axel out of his daze and he nearly did a double take when he focused on the saboteur, who had somehow managed to sneak up in front of him without so much as making a sound. He smelled like High Grade, metallic and vaguely antiseptic, and Axel grimaced at the sour smell.

Jazz grinned, no doubt picking up his emotions. “You seem a bit nervous. Wouldn’t be because you’ve somehow managed to extort your own workers and gotten a little too deep with some criminal activities in this fair city of yours?”

Axel grimaced, “You know.”

“I always know, mah mech. It’s just a matter of getting a confession.” Blunt, he was also very blunt. Axel’s spark pounded in his chest as he contemplated his options, glancing between his scattered wealth and the menacing minibot standing in front of him. Yes, he was a businessman and logic would dictate that he give it up...but he didn’t make it this far alive by simply keeling over and putting himself at other bot's mercy.

It was pure instinct.

But Axel will always remember the satisfying crunch when his helm slammed into that bright blue visor, shattering the delicate crystal and unleashing a strangled howl of pain from the saboteur. He ducked beneath a roundhouse punch and ran towards the opposite end of the room, optics focused on the window. If he could just—

Something grabbed his pede, pulling so roughly that he fell before reaching it and his own faceplates smashed on the windowpane. White hot pain lanced through his faceplates, centering around his noseplate (which was no doubt broken) and causing his entire vision to go completely black with static.

Survival subroutines went online with full force.

He kicked and thrashed, aiming for anything his pedes slammed into. Once or twice he felt himself connect with something solid but when he finally regained some of his vision, he felt himself being twisted around and the last thing he ever saw was a black fist hurling itself with startling speed towards his face.

A sound of crunching metal, a flash of processor numbing pain...

Then everything went black.

~~~

"He was out of line."

"I know." Prowl said softly, setting down the datapad he had been reading before the other mech had stormed into his office. "You don't have to keep reminding me, Riot." And he didn't. Because Prowl had been the reciever of various glares and sympathetic looks when they'd closed shop on the Axel operation and made their way back to headquarters.

Word had traveled fast that the commissioner's "shadow" had gone haywire and those who had hated Jazz's previous involvement in their cases had made no effort to hide their smug aura of "I-told-you-so" when he passed them by. Prowl had locked himself in his office, not before ordering everyone to get back to work or else he'd have them working the graveyard shift and turning his back on bots who could only frown at the Earth euphemism.

Riot scoffed, "Seems like I do. Because you promised me you'd gotten that mech of yours under control and you haven't." The larger silver mech is grimacing and his EM field is a mess of flaring emotions. But anger is the more prominent of them all and it's strong enough to make his silver plating flare and the doorwings on his back stiffen and dip downward.

Prowl dutifully ignored the blatant display of hostility from his lieutenant, knowing it's not aimed directly at him. But that doesn't make him feel any better. Because everything _is_ a mess; their prime suspect was undergoing intensive surgery at the local hospital and he'd just had to fire his best friend from a job that he'd truly believed had been helping with his post-war transition.

He'd been a fool and the consequences had been severe.

Riot opened his mouth to retort but something in Prowl's posture stops him and instead he let out a haggard exvent.

He glanced around and grabbed one of the chairs in the office, pulling it towards the desk and settling down on it. Clasping his servos in his lap, his gaze returned to the former Autobot SIC but his optics lacked their usual fire.

"He nearly killed Axel," Riot said softly. "He caved his entire helm in and the damage to his processor is...we don't evem know if he's going to be fit for interrogation once he's out of the ICU."

Prowl grimaced, "You think I don't know that?"

"I think you're letting your attachment to the mech get the better of you."

The black and white commissioner scoffed, "He's my friend."

At that, Riot shook his head. "I'm your friend. But when I messed up with the Iota case, you gave me three solar cycles of suspension without pay. And the only thing _I_ did was misplace evidence during an _embezzlement_ case." He paused, gauging the other's reaction. "I've seen the way you look at him, Prowl. It's the same way you look at those Twins of yours."

"Don't you dare bring them into this." Prowl hissed, doorwings hiking up and lips curling into the beginning of a snarl.

Riot smiled but the action lacked any humor. "I know you care about him, Prowl. You're a good bot and it's in your nature to care. But you gotta understand that there's a limit. You can't dedicate your entire life to helping someone who very obviously doesn't want to be helped."

Prowl looks like he has something he wants to say, many things, but there's conflict in his optics and all he can do is grasp the edge of his desk and clench his jaw.

Riot is silent, letting his words sink in. He's no war veteran, despite his stocky build and obvious partiality towards weapons and tactics but he does understand the complexity of relationships. Prowl was not a young bot by any means, not in terms of age or experience, but he had a certain naivity when it came to relationships.

Unlike war, you couldn't use algorithms and statistics to deduce how someone was going to act. Especially not when it came to matters of the Spark.

Jazz had been a good bot once and Riot firmly believed in that. There had to be because Prowl was fighting in a way that only desperate bots did...there had been something there once and the Praxian was all but dying to get it back.

Such vested interest unnerved Riot, however. Because he had seen the way that small office had looked after they'd arrived, finding Energon on the walls and a panting saboteur poised over the mangled frame of what looked like Axel. Blue visor shattered, Riot could see the black and white mech's blue optics, narrowed into slits and dimmed so low they were almost unreadable.

But his EM field was all but palatable, flaring and pulsing with anger, rage and fury. He was shaking, fists clenched and dental plates grating against one another.

Somehow, he'd gotten himself calm enough to receive Prowl, smiling and claiming it was self-defense. Prowl had been dubious but he'd led his former comrade away, asking Riot to accompany the shuttle taking Axel to the nearest hospital.

It wasn't the first time that Prowl had excused Jazz's breaches of protocols. But it had been the first time someone had almost died because of it. Officer or criminal, there were laws in place now...and Jazz seemed unaware of the fact.

"He needs help." Prowl's voice is stiff, but his posture and optics radiate a deep seated sadness that pulls at Riot's spark.

"He does."

"But I don't know how to help him."

Riot sighs. "You have to let him go, y'know. His skillset...it's not suited for peace time. He's going to end up doing more damage to himself than actual good."

Prowl contemplates something for a moment, optics adopting a faraway look for a brief moment before they shuttered once, refocusing on him. Riot expects another deferment, maybe even a hopeful excuse, but the Praxian merely nods.

"Okay, then." That's his cue to leave.

Prowl waves Riot out with a dip of his helm, face grim as he reaches for his commlink unit and dials a number that he knows by spark.

~~~

Jazz downed another shot, optics squeezing shut behind his visor as the liquid crackled on his glossa for a brief moment before he finally allowed himself to swallow. It burned as it went down, a heavy blistering exvent expelled from his parted lips as he struggled to both keep himself upright in his seat and regain the feeling in his oral sensors.

Enex was bad, especially when indulged in rapid succession. But Jazz couldn't find it in himself to care at the moment.

It'd been less than an hour since Prowl had called him, apologizing in that Prowlish way of his before informing his that his status as a civilian consultant was being officially terminated. Jazz, as usual, had tried to argue; he'd found out Axel was going to be fleeing the city on a whim and if he'd waited for the department to mobilize, the mech would be long gone by now...probably off in some pretty city under a different alias. But thanks to him, Axel was now in their capable hands and they were one step closer to solving that big case that had helped Prowl win his position as chief commissioner in the first place. But rules were rules, Prowl had patiently explained, regret in his voice. And not even he was willing to overlook them for the sake of an old friendship. Jazz hadn't bothered to listen to his explanation after that and subsequently hung up on the Enforcer. His commlink hadn't been quiet since and Jazz had gone out for a couple distractions.

A cursory glance at the pile of cubes around him made him smile and he huffed. Okay, more more than a couple.

But they were working. He remembered everything, of course, but that sinking feeling in his Spark was absent and the only thing he could feel was the gentle buzzing of inebriation.

This was a new bar, a quaint little speakeasy located in the lower levels of Petrohex, and it's newness was prevalent in how the bartender didn't recognize Jazz and let him drink without a limit. To him, he was just a mech recently scorned and drowning his sadness and despair in high grade. Jazz made his appreciation known several times, smiling sweetly and setting down several shanix without demanding for any change in return. Probably not the smartest move since his only source of income had suddenly disappeared but what the hell.

It's not like his landlord was going to bust down his door demanding payment any time soon.

"Another?" There was the bartender again, his green paneling a dark grey in the dim violet lighting, smiling with those cute little crinkles sprouting at the edge of his optics. Oh how Jazz would love to trace them with his finger...

He snapped himself out of that train of thought immediately, shaking his helm and clearing his throat. Oh no, he was NOT going there again. His most recent escapade had nearly left him with a bad cast of rust in the old undercarriage and he was not too keen on repeating the situation.

But he did want more Enex. So he smiled sweetly, resting his chin on the back of his hand and nodding. "Don't mind if I do," he slurred.

Jazz must have sounded slightly more incoherent than he believed because the bartender suddenly frowned, creases sprouting between his optic ridges. Desperate, Jazz opened his mouth to reply but he noticed through his haze that the other mech wasn't even paying attention to him anymore. A brief purse of his lips and a subtle nod to someone in the distance and he was gone, leaving Jazz gaping like some Sharkticon fresh out of the Sea of Rust.

Before the saboteur could even utter something resembling a curse, he suddenly froze as a familiar sensation suddenly creeped up around him. It made his frame rattle and his spinal strut reflexively straightened as wisps of old battle protocols flared to life, small glyphs on his HUD all but begging for his weapons to mobilize. He tasted sweetness on his glossa and he licked his lips at the familiar flavor, recognizing it almost immediately.

EM fields held a distinct flavor for the saboteur, a small tic he'd noticed during the war that had proven to be immeasurably helpful on undercover operations; bots gossiped that he was just quick on his pedes, an unwilling clairvoyant. But the truth was that he could taste who exactly was approaching him. All his former SpecOps agents tasted bittersweet, Optimus tasted like plasma and Prowl like gunpowder.

This particular bot, however, tasted sweet.

Smiling, the saboteur turned to regard him over the cusp of his shoulder, visor unusually bright. "Soundwave."

The telepath stared at him curiously, helm tilted to one side. Jazz let his smile expand into a grin, dental plates flashing and EM field reaching out to wrap around the host mech's. It wasn't graceful, at least not on Jazz's behalf, but Soundwave reacted by supporting his flaring aura and counteracting with a presence that was stable and, surprisingly, supportive.

It was odd, seeing the mech that had been his greatest rival during the war pulling up a stool and taking his place beside him. Dark blue hands pushed the empty cubes aside and waved down the bartender; moments later one of them was pushing a glowing blue cube of Energon towards him and a soft monotone was commanding him to drink it.

Jazz scoffed but he complied. A small part of him enjoyed the coolness the blue drink offered, soothing the sting of the Enex he'd been previously indulging in. But the larger, more egregious part of him mourned the familiar burn of the alcoholic imbibe.

He slammed the empty cube down onto the table once he finished, smacking his lips. "Well that was painful."

Soundwave said nothing, his own drink, a purple cube of jet-grade High Grade, sitting untouched in between his clasped hands. But he wasn't completely ignoring Jazz; his EM field hovered on the edge, stoically supporting.

It was odd.

"So what brings you to this lovely corner of the world?" Jazz tried to sound nonchalant but even drunk, there was no hiding the curiosity lingering in his tone.

Soundwave replied. "Business."

"Oh?" Jazz said, intrigued. "What kinda business?"

"None of your concern." There was a note of finality to his tone, warning the saboteur that he wasn't keen on broaching the subject. In another time and place, Jazz might've been willing to push onward and force the telepath to reveal just what it was that he was dealing with. But Jazz found himself too tired to pull out his reservoirs of charisma and so resorted to simply crossing his arms on the table bar's sticky surface and burying his face in the crook of his elbow.

Primus, his helm hurt. Maybe ingesting so much Enex hadn't been a good idea.

Maybe...going after Axel hadn't been the best idea, either. Primus, he was so stupid.

Jazz couldn't seem to forget how disappointed Prowl sounded during his call, how his voice seemed to shake as if he were on the verge of falling off some emotional precipice. Lately, that seemed to be the only emotion the saboteur had been able to garner out of the black and white Enforcer and it made his insides recoil with personal disdain.

Because Prowl had kept coming back to him, back when they were more than just friendly acquaintances, enduring and silently suffering until Jazz had finally done the one unselfish thing in his life and simply said _enough._

Accepting the position of civilian consultant had been done on a whim...because Jazz genuinely believed it'd be enough to push him out from under the dark and gloomy cloud that had been cast over him since the war ended. But he'd gone and screwed things again and no doubt Prowl had put himself in the line of fire, pulling strings so that he'd get away with nothing more than a slap on the wrist.

 

Jazz felt his hands clench into fists and his Spark gave a heavy lurch in his chassis, prompting him to stiffen as the buzz went away and the pain slowly began to return.

He lifted his helm, rubbing his faceplates with one hand and sighing heavily. Checking his chronometer, he realized that it was getting pretty late and if he didn't start making his way down to the station, he was going to miss the last shuttle back to Iacon.

"Jazz."

Frowning slightly, Jazz turned to regard Soundwave, halting midthought. The former Decepticon was holding another cube of Energon towards him but it's color was off, faint traces of purple swirling in the blue liquid. It took him a second to realize Soundwave had dipped a portion of his own cube into the one he was currently offering.

Surprised, Jazz could only stare at the offered beverage.But then an insistent pulse from the telepath along their intermingled EM fields pushed the saboteur to accept it with a slightly shaky hand. He gave it a quick scan, making sure no questionable substances were in it, and then took a tentative sip.

It tasted good.

"Thanks." He said softly, mild confusion in his tone as he tilted his chin up to meet that red visored gaze.

Soundwave dipped his helm. "You're welcome."

For a moment, they simply sat there, silent and surrounded by the gentle music of the live band playing at the back of the establishment and the chatter of excited patrons. There was no war, no imminent danger and for the first time in a long while, Jazz was glad for the peaceful atmosphere. They snapped out of their brief lapse with mutual clearings of their vocalizers and proceeded to indulge in their drinks in communable silence.

That is, until Jazz decided to break the silence.

“You ever miss the war?”

Soundwave paused, cube hovering near the intake slot in his mask. The slagger refused to take it off in public, much to Jazz's disappointment. “Miss? Odd choice of words.”

“Nah,” Jazz held up a finger, trying to get his thoughts in order. “I mean…isn’t it weird being able to walk around without fighting? Ah mean...” He paused, frowning slightly. "Nobody's dying."

The telepath stiffened and for a moment, his field rippled with something akin to alarm but he soothed it down almost as quickly as it appeared. "No."

But he's lying, Jazz knows even without prying into the mech's business. There's a sadness to his voice, one that the saboteur is all too familiar with. But he lets it slide, just this once.

Because the drink Soundwave gave him was doing it's job, numbing his Spark and frame like a gentle tide. It's almost better than an overload.

Almost.

 


	3. In Times Of Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While some bots find themselves fitting into the post-war society on Cybertron, Optimus and Megatron struggle to keep the peace.

_“In the end, we all become stories...”_

 

—Margaret Atwood

 

 

Bluestreak hated sweets.

It was something few individuals were privy to and very often when situations called for a gift, the sharpshooter found himself receiving oil cakes and Energon goodies sweetened with silver and zinc. All confections whose heavy textures cloyed on his glossa, sticking to his fingers and his lips and tainting every single thing he dared touch afterwards.

 _Sweets are for younglings_ , he’d mutter in the comfortable emptiness of his habsuite, _not for me_. He’d enumerate his distaste for those assorted oddities with disdainful looks, blatant rejections and backhanded comments when he found himself in the vicinity of those who did not seem to grasp this simple concept. But alas, it fell upon deaf audials and when another moment presented itself, Bluestreak found himself buried in a pile of gifted sweets; some wrapped in colorful papers and tinfoil and others in their original packaging, the industry logo plastered in bright colors on alloy lids.

Such is how he found himself again, in the comfort of his small abode on the outskirts of the city that had once been Vos. Most residents had eyries, built to accommodate the nomadic and social nature of its Seeker inhabitants. But there were also a few structures built for grounders, part of a project intended to prevent the social separation that had caused so many problems in the past.

Bluestreak liked where he lived; it was cozy, with a spacious foyer and living area, high ceilings and comfortable but modest furniture. The city had been renamed New Vosian, in honor of the new generations of Seekers it’s local hotspots had been producing, with their sleek builds and long graceful wings that made them faster and more efficient than the original pre-war model types. Purists called them the living embodiment of Primus’ evolutionary creed and others, like Starscream, called them younglings with fancy wings and unfiltered binary programming.

It was amusing to see the vain Seeker undergo several frame enhancements over the years, slimming his waist, increasing the strength of his own aerial appendages and indulging in experimental power sources that helped his war-hardened body regain that graceful agility he’d once been the sole beholder of. Skywarp called him stupid and Thundercracker had merely rolled his optics, muttering something about “egotistical mania” under his breath as he sipped a cube of very strong high grade.

Speaking of…

Bluestreak glanced down at his datapad, optics narrowed as he went over the extensive list on the bright blue screen. It wasn’t anything grand, just the designations of bots who’d stated their intentions of attending his and Thundercracker’s _conjunx ritus_ , an event that had started out as casual murmuring between friends but had quickly escalated into a city-wide celebration once inebriated lips became loosened. Bluestreak suspected Jazz of being responsible for their anticipated union making the local headlines but then again, Blaster had connections when it came to communications and it wouldn’t have been above Swindle to strike a deal with some reporter for the sake of pissing off the stoic blue jet.

Thundercracker had tried to contain the situation but as the rumor mill got itself going, there was no stopping it. Strings were pulled, bets made and before long the event was planned for the end of the decaorn, on the steps of the newly rebuilt Hall of Records in Iacon. Optimus had eagerly extended his services as the spiritual leader in the ceremony and Megatron had resorted to offering the security of the event; Thundercracker had gone through several nervous breakdowns before realization befell him and he resorted to enduring the attention and the ridiculous gifts that had suddenly began to appear on their doorstep. A few treasures lay among the presents littering the apartment floor and they all sat on Bluestreak’s desk in his office; a small collection of imported waxes and streak-free application wipes (no doubt courtesy of Sunstreaker), a brand-new scope for his personal sniper rifle (Perceptor had always been eager to find the right time to give him one of his prototypes) and lastly, a small personal projector that displayed photos once they were uploaded onto its tiny memory core.

It currently held a picture of Thundercracker, draped over the berth in recharge with his wings askew and mouth open mid-mutter. It was endearing and the sharpshooter knew that if his to-be-Conjunx ever caught wind of it he’d adamantly demand that it be deleted and replaced with something more proper, like a picture of the two of them or some nice scenery of the Vosian sunsets.

Bluestreak knew only one bot was considerate to offer such a token and he endeavored to thank Prowl the next time he saw him.

A small ping from the datapad brought him out of his musings and he glanced down, optics widening slightly as he saw the small notification message being displayed. Vortex had just responded with the intent of attending the ceremony and he’d listed two other guests to be joining him.

Odd.

The last time Bluestreak had seen Vortex had been at a small bar in Polyhex, where Jazz had taken him for a couple quick drinks to commemorate his momentous occasion. Blaster had told him it was a “bachelor party of sorts” and while he appreciated the Earth euphemism, Bluestreak had found it difficult to blend into the scenery. Never much of a drinker, he could only sip mild high grade and pathetically cheer as Jazz downed his tenth shot of Visco and Huffer fell into a ceremonious heap on the floor when his FIM chip malfunctioned and the high grade caught up to his processor. Vortex had snuck up next to him as everyone watched First Aid wobble towards the downed Autobot and tried to reboot his disposal systems, sober and brooding, and proceeded to tell Bluestreak that bondings were the worst kind of torture and that he was a fool for falling into one.

Naturally, Bluestreak had ignored the copter, letting the loud noises in the establishment serve as his excuse for his rudeness. Everyone else did the same thing, and besides, Bluestreak had enough nerves to keep him awake at night.

But still, it wouldn’t hurt to let Megatron know that his former torture specialist was making an appearance. With a quick swipe of his finger, requests were approved and messages were sent and Bluestreak could finally turn the datapad off. Rubbing the bridge of his noseplate, he set the electronic down and proceeded to pile the sweets into a small corner of the room. Thundercracker always liked to go through them when he came back from teaching at the Academy, even if they ended up giving some away to Thundercracker’s students at the end of the solar cycle.

The former sharpshooter smiled, memories of his to-be Conjunx and the overall domesticity of the whole situation adding to his good mood. His optics brightened when he picked up a small box of zirconium chews, a favorite of the blue jet, and set it aside for safekeeping.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he began to sort through the gifts but by the time he found himself putting the last box of keepsakes away, he heard the front entrance opening and the familiar heavy footfalls of his to-be-bonded made their way towards the living room.

Bluestreak was on his feet in an instant, smiling wide as he greeted Thundercracker with a happy flutter of his doorwings, all but bounding to receive him.

Thundercracker glanced down at the small grounder, red optics narrowed to their usual slits and mouth pursed into a thin line. His EM field was buzzing with the usual concoction of stress and tiredness and despite the fact that whatever issue he carried with him, a glimmer of happiness always managed to shine through when he lay his gaze on Bluestreak. It made the sharpshooter’s Spark skip a beat and his frame warmed at the subtle gesture.

“Blue,” Thundercracker murmured, and the edges of his lips quirked into the start of a smile. He lifted a servo and placed it on the Bluestreak’s shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze that the sharpshooter reciprocated with a wide grin. Unlike his looming partner, Bluestreak wasn’t reserved when it came to showcasing affection and he wrapped his arms around his waist, pressing his cheek against the golden cockpit and EM field mimicking his hug.

For a moment, Thundercracker did nothing, arms held slightly raised at his side as if he didn’t know how to respond. But then he let out a small sigh and bent down to properly embrace the tiny Praxian.

“You’re unusually affectionate today,” the blue jet said once they parted, hands clasped between them.

Bluestreak shrugged, “I just missed you.” He quipped. Azure optics roved over familiar blue wings and he frowned slightly, noticing that they were drooping a bit more than normal. Smile softening, he reached up to pet the sensor laden edge of one, using techniques he’d learn long ago to coax a bit of the stiffness out of it. Thundercracker’s engine let out an appreciative rumble, optics dimming slightly.

“Rough day?”

“Yeah.”

Nodding in understanding, Bluestreak tugged the large flier towards the couch, sitting him down before running off and coming back with the box of zirconium chews. It was difficult to ignore the way those scarlet optics brightened or how Thundercracker was a little too eager to accept the box and indulge in the tiny silver squares.

Settling beside him, Bluestreak swung his legs into his Intended’s lap, back resting on the opposite end of the couch. “Was it those triplets again?”

Thundercracker sighed, shaking his helm. “No.” He replied, swallowing his mouthful before turning to regard his tiny mate. “It was one of the newbuild’s creators. Krios.” His lips twisted to one side in disdain. “He sent me a couriered message.”

“Oh.” The Praxian frowned. “What did he want?”

Something flickered in Thundercracker’s field and he stilled, glancing down at the half-empty box of confectionaries before heaving a sigh. He placed the lid back on the box and set it down on the arm of the couch, turning to regard Bluestreak with his hands clasped in his lap. It was a position the Praxian was well accustomed to; the blue flier adopted it when he spoke to his students, strong voice commandeering respect as he reminded them that they were receiving classes of monumental value and recharging during lectures was not acceptable.

Bluestreak suspected one of them had probably been brave enough to complain to their creators. Scooting forward, he reached out and grabbed a large grey hand to hold securely in his own. Dexterous fingers messaged the seams, following the fading bumps of scars and bumps that constantly reminded them both of their past. Bluestreak had gotten rid of his but Thundercracker insisted on keeping them, stating that it did nobody any good to forget.

Bluestreak knew better than to argue.

“It was another one.” Thundercracker’s voice was stern and his lips pursed as the words left his mouth.

For a moment, there was only silence and Bluestreak furrowed his optics, thinking. He knew exactly what TC was referring to; one thing that the Praxian appreciated about his to-be Conjunx was that he was honest. It was what had originally drawn them together after the war ended. Thundercracker was the only bot patient enough to listen to Bluestreak’s ramblings but he was also unafraid to mention when he was getting bothersome, a feat that few bots had the bearings to partake in. That honesty translated to their relationship and manifested in the manner that Thundercracker told him everything that happened to him, never sparing Bluestreak’s feelings for the sake of posterity.

This was one of those occasions, which had become more frequent ever since their bonding ceremony was made public all those breems ago.

“Did they tell you anything bad?” Unfortunately for them both, Bluestreak lacked his mate’s tact for these specific conversations.

“Just the usual,” Thundercracker said. His voice was stony but his EM field flickered with tinges of growing anger. It made the former sharpshooter vitals twist and he let his mate’s hand go, fluidly transitioning himself to sit in the Seeker’s lap. He softly cupped Thundercracker’s face in his hands, blue optics brimming with warmth as he gazed meaningfully into those scarlet depths.

“They’re just words, TC, alright? We both knew that this wouldn’t be easy, especially when we decided to settle here in New Vosian. But we decided this wouldn’t matter. Because nobody else understands what we have and they probably never will. I don’t mind what they say because in the end, it’s your choice to come back here with me because you love me, don’t you? Exactly. So, who cares if I’m a grounder and you’re a Seeker? We fought to be able to make our own decisions, and we’re not about to let anybody get in the way of that.” Bluestreak pressed a soft kiss to Thundercracker’s cheek, warm and understanding. “I’m in it for the long haul, okay? And nothing, not even a couple of judgmental purists, are going to keep me from bonding to you.”

Thundercracker stared up at Bluestreak, optics soft as he let his gaze travel down those soft smiling faceplates. “You really don’t mind?”

The Praxian shook his helm, “Nope.” And there was no denying the sincerity in that single glyph.

A small amused scoff escaped the Seeker and he leaned forward, resting his forehead against the smooth expanse of Bluestreak’s chestplate. His hands came up to rest on the Praxian’s hips, thumbs tracing gentle circles on the smooth metal. There was nothing lustful about his ministrations, even if those same little movements would have had the grounder giggling and panting in less than a nanoklik. But this time, neither was seeking to interface, no matter they both deeply enjoyed it. So Bluestreak merely let out a content sigh and wrapped his arms around the larger bot’s helm, pressing his cheek against the top and smiling sympathetically.

They simply reveled in the reassurance of one another, content to bask in the stability that tactile interaction brought them. Bluestreak hated it when TC came home like this, all stressed and angry but it was something that he’d learned to deal with. Not just because he loved the big blue flier but also since he was one of the few veterans who was eager to see their world truly flourish.

Castes may no longer exist and laws prohibited discrimination and capital punishments, but nothing protected bots from the cruelty of those who had yet to accept the new world order. Dubbed as purists, these bots were usually neutrals that had flown in after Cybertron had been reopened and their lack of wartime experience made them indifferent to the struggles that the majority of the population was undergoing. Autobots and Decepticons had less stigmatized views of adopting lifestyles, finding that few things other than compatibility and genuine affection stopped them from forming relationships and starting new lives.

A few were still privy to their old views but none voiced them out loud because they understood that such sentiments were responsible for their previous society’s entropy in the first place.

Bluestreak knew that he’d be foolish to believe that time would make Seekers, even those that had fought in the war, truly accept his relationship with Thundercracker. Bondings between grounders and fliers was seen as taboo and various Seekers had let Bluestreak know that it was a desecration for him to rob Thundercracker of the experience of a trine. The Praxian had offered apologies when confronted alone but when such accusations were made in the presence of his Intended, he would stay silent and watch as Thundercracker all but told them to slag off. They’d continue with their errand or sometimes Bluestreak would find himself dragged home and fragged into the next orn.

Their lives weren’t perfect. But they were happy. Bluestreak understood that even if Thundercracker didn’t adhere to the strict social regularities of his fellow Seekers, he still felt a kinship with them and living in New Vosian had been an opportunity for him to settle down among bots who were his same frametype. In a place where he could teach and extend his learnings of the art of flying and social history. It was a compromise the Praxian had been willing to partake in.

And he stood by his decision.

Knowing that TC would need something other than warm hugs to cheer him up, Bluestreak extracted himself from his mate’s lap, grinning when he noticed the whine of protest the Seeker made in his throat. “Let’s go out to eat.” He announced, hands on his hips and doorwings hiked up high as he stood firmly on the floor.

Thundercracker raised an optic ridge, caught off guard by the sudden announcement. “We have plenty of food here.” He said, gesturing with a sweep of his arm the pile of sweets scattered around the room and piled in the corner.

“Mirage’s bar opened up a few orns ago, y’know the one he’s been blathering about nonstop? He opened it! And I hear he’s got this really special off world brew that does this thing to your struts and it kinda—“

Thundercracker smiled, “Okay.”

Bluestreak halted midsentence, surprised that the Seeker had agreed so quickly. Especially considering that it was in relation to an Autobot bar, run and operated, and also probably teeming with bots he’d faced down for millennia across the battlefield. Even if Thundercracker and Mirage had briefly found common ground because of their former affiliations with high caste society, that didn’t necessarily make them chummy acquaintances.

Bluestreak felt a pang go through his spark; maybe whatever message TC had received this time had been worse than he’d imagined. But the Praxian had said all he could possibly say to his mate, and the only thing left to do was show him a good time. He extended a servo, palm upwards.

“Let’s go, then.” Thundercracker took the hand and rose to his pedes, giving his wings a cursory glance to make sure that they were at least presentable enough to pass for a casual social outing. They passed because he let Bluestreak usher them out of their compartment, casting a bemused glance at the pile of gifts in the corner before ducking underneath the doorway and making their way down towards the shuttle station. It didn’t escape Bluestreak’s notice how Thundercracker kept a tight grip on his hand while they weaved their way through the traffic, thumb softly caressing the back of his palm.

It made the former sharpshooter smile and a familiar warmth spread through his spark, one that he sincerely couldn’t wait to share with Thundercracker once the time actually came to cement their bond.

The day couldn’t arrive fast enough.

~~~

Let it be written in whatever covenant Primus chose to inscribe the happenings of time and space that Optimus Prime hated political meetings. He despised them, from the mundane proceedings to the inexplicable desire that each politician had to argue. There was no such thing as a consensus; only bargaining and blackmail that was manipulated on and off the court room floor.

Optimus found himself sitting in on another senatorial proceeding in the dome shaped building that resembled a human arena that had seats around it’s perimeter, a single platform at the base of it all. This was where the elected representatives of respective city-states were convened to provide information on how the reconstruction efforts were advancing. There were a couple empty seats, most from smaller sectors that had yet to be rebuilt or who were still struggling to set up their own local governments and infrastructure.

Funding was proving to be a major issue, with many reps stating that refugees were making it difficult to keep track of the ratio of amenities to members of the population. New Crystal City was taking the harshest toll; they’d relied on the energy created by the helex crystal gardens that had once dotted their landscapes but attempts to regrow the precious minerals was meeting with monetary setbacks and they were petitioning for a loan.

Uraya was demanding an Enforcers headquarters be stationed in their city state, claiming that crime was up with the lack of a police presence and poverty was beginning to take root since bots who had their belongings stolen took to surviving on the streets.

The Iaconian representative was demanding more funding for their educational system and the New Vosian representative was demanding subsidy for their scientific expeditions. Beside Optimus, Megatron grimaced as Starscream’s voice carried throughout the domed enclosure, bouncing off the walls and assaulting their audio receptors as his voice rose an octave with each mentioned indignation. The Prime finally understood where Megatron’s ire came from in regards to his former SIC; that voice was a weapon.

Not that he would ever say it out loud. Skyfire always had a soft expression on his face when he listened to his partner speak so it must be an acquired taste.

A sharp poke against his side knocked him out of his train of thoughts and Optimus stared at Starscream, noticing that the Seeker was staring at him expectantly from his position at the podium situated near the center of the building. Shuttering his optics, Optimus replied, “We have to deny your proposition, Starscream. Our focus has to be on rebuilding; once you can establish that New Vosian’s infrastructure is completely stabilized, then we can discuss approving backing for off world expeditions.”

Murmurs of approval spread across the hundreds of assembled bots but it was obvious that Starscream was paying them absolutely no heed. “The expeditions would be useful for rebuilding, _Oh Great Prime_. If you haven’t noticed, resources are limited. We have several abandoned colonies that can provide valuable resources, alloy, alternate energy sources, which can be used to sped up restoration efforts.” He pointed a digit up towards the Uraya representative, red optics narrowed into slits. “Uraya hasn’t been able to receive the police headquarters they requested because you’ve been diverting all your resources to getting smaller city states up on their feet but as you can see from their empty seats, all those credits are being virtually wasted.” He slammed a hand down on the surface of his podium, the other gesturing towards the vacancies with an air of smug determination.

Some of the representatives’ optics were lighting up with keen interest, mainly those of New Crystal City and the other scientifically inclined city states.

Megatron’s engine gave a small growl, audible only to Optimus and the convoy clenched his fists slightly as he felt all pairs of optics land on him. Starscream wasn’t wrong. But Optimus knew that if he approved Starscream’s request, then everybody would strive to petition for the same treatment, forgoing the fundamental necessities for intellectual pursuits. But that was beside the main point: funding was not unlimited. They still had yet to designate a treasury in this odd democracy they were constructing and for the time being, Optimus was being given operation over most of the funds. Many had disputed this, particularly the neutrals, but the majority had ruled in favor.

Optimus loathed the responsibility but he knew it was a ploy to keep tabs on him. No one was stupid enough to try anything when all optics where on him. Optimus knew he wasn’t but there were many who disputed his common sense.

Not that the Prime could blame them. He had initiated a legal bond between himself and his arch nemesis, the slagmaker Megatron. Various inquiries into his sanity were not out of the question.

The last bit made him want to chuckle but that would be unbecoming of him; especially in a situation as precarious as this. He ran his hand down his face, sighing heavily, well aware that the sound traveled through his commlink to echo around the assembled bots. Meeting Starscream’s scarlet optics, he said, “Let’s take a 30 breem recess.”

Starscream scoffed, “25.” He said haughtily and Optimus conceded, ignoring the rumble of amusement from the mech behind him. The red and blue convoy briskly headed towards the back door behind his seat, emerging to find the two stoic frames of Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. The red twin had been leaning on his electric staff and he snapped to attention when Optimus made his grand exit, Megatron trailing closely behind him.

At once, both twins convened in their usual positions with Sunstreaker standing beside Optimus’ flank and Sideswipe trailing behind Megatron. Neither of them said anything but they cast anxious looks at their former commander as they teeked the unease swirling around him.

“You okay, boss?” Sideswipe asked, brows furrowed slightly in concern.

Optimus waited until they reached the end of the golden alloyed hallway, halting outside of the small waiting room assigned to him and Megatron before shaking his head. “Not particularly,” he said softly, optics weary above his mask as he turned to regard the red twin as his golden counterpart entered the room first to ensure its safety. Sunstreaker nodded affirmation and stepped aside to let them in, remaining behind with Sideswipe as the two former wartime leaders settled into plush chairs on opposite ends of the room with mutual sighs.

Casting a glance at the former gladiator, Optimus sighed. “You could have said something.” He retorted.

Megatron scoffed, “What, pray tell, could I have said that would been able to fix that mess you allowed to spawn back there?”

“Anything would have been preferable to you sitting there in silence.” Optimus replied tiredly. “We’re supposed to be a united front and the last thing we need is for your silence to stir up any more tiresome conspiracy theories.” The convoy shuddered at the recollection of tabloid headlines that stated that Megatron had induced some kind of shadowplay on Optimus, making crazy assumptions of pulled strings and illicit endeavors behind closed doors. It had taken two Earth days to calm the majority of the representatives and another few to convince them that Optimus’ actions and Megatron’s silence were nothing scandalous.

Megatron leaned back into his chair, stretched his legs and smiling softly as his joints cracked and his struts popped. He so loved watching how tiny little noises made his former nemesis flinch, especially when it added to that tiny flare of annoyance that had become a constant in his EM field.

“This is serious.” Optimus said sternly. “We can’t keep doing this. We need to establish a treasury or else we’re going to be run into the ground trying to verify every tmajor transaction that occurs.” He paused, grabbing one side of his helm and massaging his digits into the alloy as if trying to fend off an incoming processor ache. “I need to talk to Prowl.”

“Prowl?” Megatron scoffed, amused. “What’s he going to do?”

“We need a working bank system.” Optimus said icily.

“Like the humans?”

Optimus rolled his optics, “Say what you want about them, Megatron. But they’ve built systems that’ve kept countries afloat for centuries. This is the difficult part of post-war reconstruction: creating structures that will keep everything running smoothly and fairly even after we’re gone.”

At that Megatron was silent, lips pursing briefly before he sniffed and turned to regard one of the abstract paintings lining the golden walls. It was an ugly thing, with splotches of color that bore no shape and lines that were too erratic to even be considered aesthetically pleasing. Hell, even the walls were ugly, with their golden color that shone far too brightly for the gladiator’s simple tastes.

It all reminded him of the olden days, even if the bots who had once roamed corridors like these were long dead, the memories remained. Megatron would like to say that his silence was due to the fact that he disliked politics and that his former occupation as a miner left him ill-equipped to know the basics of even the simplest political systems. But the reasons for his silence during proceedings ran much deeper.

It was easier to let Optimus make the big decisions, to receive the looks of contempt when he overrode radical proposals and listened to the disgruntled mechs that appeared when the floor was opened to public debates and forums.  

Because if things ever went wrong under his influence, Megatron felt it would undermine everything he ever worked for to get to this point. He’d be just another political figure, unable to do more than was needed to keep the government’s denizens alive and well. Granted, he understood that politics and government were all about compromise and the utopia he envisioned was simply nothing more than an idealistic hope. Optimus had taught him this in more ways than one; behind closed doors, he had learned that his former adversary was not the saint that he had grown to despise across the battlefield. In more ways than one, Optimus was selfish and he complained enough for the both of them but he always managed to tether himself back to the morality he’d preached and worked towards the peace he sermonized.

For the good of all sentient beings.

Sentimental nonsense at its core. But still, he couldn’t deny that Optimus wasn’t wrong. They were toeing the line between a constitutional monarchy and a senate; an odd arrangement but one that kept the balance while something more solid was put into place. It would have been easier to step down but Optimus had insisted that they were the only ones capable of providing a voice for the war veteran portion that comprised most of Cybertronian society. Megatron allowed himself to indulge Optimus because of this single explanation.

His men had fought the war well, sacrificed and lost. They deserved an opportunity to start their own lives. Much more than the neutrals that came back claiming their rights but he digressed.

Their silent stewing was brought to a startling finale when a firm knock sounded on the door. Immediately both were on their feet and Optimus stepped forth to stand beside Megatron.

“What is it, Sunstreaker?”

The deep voice of the yellow twin was nice and audible through the thick sheet of metal separating them. “You have a visitor. Representative Pion of Uraya.” A pause. “He says it’s regarding an urgent matter.”

Both leaders exchanged a glance, Megatron wary and Optimus concerned. Nobody had ever requested a private audience for them, especially not in the middle of a senate proceeding. For a moment, Optimus was inclined to dismiss the request but Megatron let out a heavy sigh and answered in his stead. “Send him in.”

Optimus didn’t even have a chance to look surprised before the doors opened and a tiny minibot sauntered in, flanked by Sideswipe while Sunstreaker hung back in the entrance with his trademark scowl in place. The minibot’s blue optics riveted between the former gladiator and the convoy, his nervousness increasing tenfold as he found himself in the proximity of two of Cybertron’s greatest warriors. His black plating was chipped and cracked in several places and even though it shone from a good waxing, it was obvious he wasn’t one too keen on keeping up appearances.

Megatron recalled this being the mech asking for police presence in his sector and his optics narrowed as he took in the bot’s telltale marks of conflict.

“Sirs,” he said, voice shaking slightly. “I apologize for intruding but this is a matter of the utmost importance.”

Optimus glanced up at Sideswipe and nodded once. “You may leave us, Sideswipe.”

The red mech’s optics widened. “But Optimus--” He cut himself off at the rev of his brother’s engine and with a dramatic roll of his optics complied. Though he kept shooting the minibot furtive glances, grip on his staff tightening in apprehension until he disappeared behind the newly reclosed door. It didn’t escape either of the mech’s notices that the minibot relaxed once the red twin left the room.

“Representative Pion,” Optimus said with genuine warmth. He gestured towards a small bench near the black mech. “Please, take a seat.”

“Prime.” Pion said respectfully, dipping his head in Megatron’s direction before taking up on the convoy’s offer. His hands were clasped tightly in his lap, fingers wringing with a nervousness that was impossible to miss. Both Optimus and Megatron sat back down in their respective chairs, Optimus leaning forward with his antenna flicking with attentiveness and Megatron leaning back with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Speak,” Megatron droned, smiling slightly when Pion flinched.

The minibot sucked in a breath then let it out shakily. His lips pursed and his optics narrowed resolutely as he lifted his helm up and straightened his back. “I think...there might be someone in my city-state that might be planning to bring harm to you and the other representatives.” He paused, swallowing roughly. “And I have proof.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have absolutely no fucking understanding of politics whatsoever.


	4. First Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even during peacetime, conflict always finds some manner in which to arise. Soundwave and Jazz learn that soon enough.

_“Someone I loved_

_once gave me_

_a box full of_

_darkness._

_It took me years_

_To understand_

_That this, too,_

_Was a gift...”_

 

—Mary Oliver

 

 

“This isn’t going to work.”

“I dunno. I kinda like my odds.”

“You have better chances of being stepped on by a Metrotitan.”

“Why you little--!”

“Stop it.” The two arguing voices trailed off into startled squeaks as the coarse voice cut through their conversation, prompting both pairs of scarlet optics to widen in surprise and turn to regard the ebony feline lounging on top of a plush cream-colored chair. She was curled into a ball, tail end flickering as her sides rose and fell with deep careful vents. To any other bot in the waiting area of the small clinic, she was asleep but her EM field was brimming with attentiveness, annoyance seeping into it when it brushed against the blue and red twins sitting on the floor.

Faceplate scrunching up, the red and black minibot stuck out his glossa out at her back. A growl sounded from the resting feline and that glossa went back in with an audible pop.

“Idiot.” His blue twin snickered, punching his shoulder.

“Buzz off, Rumble.” Frenzy hissed, his focus going back to the card game they had been busy playing with. They were larger versions of the human poker cards, complete with badly drawn red and black numbers and symbols. It was one of their most recent purchases from one of the markets in Ithex, a gift Soundwave had bestowed upon them for good behavior. In reality, it was just an incentive; they’d made it a couple orns without completely trashing their apartment and their host mech was letting them know he appreciated the restraint.

Rumble and Frenzy had no idea how to play any of the human card games but they made up their own and kept themselves entertained. At the moment, they were playing one where they put down cards in the middle and if they had a match in numbers, they’d have to react fast and snatch the pair of cards before the other. Each pair indicated a shanix the loser had to pay the winner so they were pretty focused on their task.

Ravage was keeping an eye on them for the most part but she was also focusing on the quantum bond she shared with Soundwave and the aerials. Laserbeak and Buzzsaw had contracted a mild illness after ingesting contaminated Energon and after waking up lethargic and in pain, Soundwave had rushed them to the nearest clinic. They were able to get their fuel tanks pumped and given fresh sterile Energon to replenish their energy levels, resulting in two healing aerials that were now sore and eager to spread their wings.

Ravage could feel their impatience through the bond, overshadowed only by Soundwave’s quiet sense of relief. The medic in charge, the former Autobot named First Aid, was quietly assuring the host mech that Laserbeak and Buzzsaw would be fine and that they could go home by the end of the orn once they had a small surgery to repair the damaged lining of their tanks.

It made a peaceful sigh escape Ravage and the feline sent pulses of reassurance to her youngest siblings, promising them she’d share her stash of rust sticks if they behaved. Even after suffering the Cybertronian equivalent of food poisioning, the two aerials chirped their agreement, already thinking of their next meal.

A deep purr of amusement was her only response.

“They doin’ okay?” Rumble mused, cast a look up at his eldest sibling.

Ravage nodded once. “Couldn’t be better.” An optic cracked open and she caught sight of the mess of cards on the floor, causing her field to spike with curiosity. “What in Cybertron’s name are you even playing?”

“Catch ‘em all.” Frenzy replied.

Rumble frowned, “You idiot. That’s the Pokémon catchphrase. You can’t use that!”

The black and red minibot shrugged, noseplate raised haughtily in the air. “Patents are only limited to the planet they exist on.”

“Are not!”

“Are too!”

Frenzy opened his mouth to retort but before he could even utter a word, the door to the clinic entrance opened and all three symbionts froze, attention trained on the dark black mech that suddenly made his way inside. Large bulky frame, flashing red visor and razer sharp rotors on his back, his identity was undeniable and they all grimaced at the newcomer. Ravage sneered.

“Vortex,” she hissed, not even bother to hide the displeasure in her tone. It was no secret they disliked each other; far too many times had her siblings been victims of the former interrogator’s harsh brand of twisted humor and she was loathed to forget the various transgressions he’d made against her host mech during the war. In short, she detested him, and no universal pact of peace could ever change that.

Unfortunately, Vortex seemed unfazed by the ire teeking in the air and he let out a dry laugh. “If it isn’t my favorite little parasites. Here to get your monthly rabies shot?”

Rumble flashed him an obscene gesture with his middle finger. “Fuck off.”

Ravage wasn’t interested in a back and forth with the rotor mech so she straightened up into a sitting position, ears drawn back and scarlet optics narrowed into slits. “Why are you here?”

Vortex sighed, “I’m here for pleasure, kitty.” He retracted his mask to offer them a smug smirk. “I got a date.”

Rumble and Frenzy were silent for a moment, exchanging startled looks before they simultaneously let out exaggerated guffaws. “As if anyone would date you!” The blue symbiont said, arms hugging his middle as he struggled to contain his mirth. Frenzy was on his back, legs kicking in the air and visor flashing in tune with his own cackles.

Ravage had the mind to tell them to behave, that such behavior was unbecoming of mechs who were older than half the Decepticon army, but when she teeked the annoyance in Vortex’s field she smiled innately and reveled in the momentary humiliation of the rotor. However, all amusement was cast aside when the greeting door opened and the familiar red and white frame of the Autobot sub medic stepped out, agitation in his field.

At once, Vortex’s visor brightened and he leaned towards the new arrival, engine revving. “Aid.” He all but purred, catching the chin of the Autobot between his thumb and forefinger.

First Aid let out an exasperated sigh, shaking his helm. “I sent you a message telling you I was going to be a while,” he said lowly, casting a glance in Ravage’s direction. He was wary and the lack of shame or embarrassment in his field was certainly something the feline wasn’t expecting. But it was nothing compared to the affection rippling in the rotor’s field; if Ravage didn’t know any better, she’d be inclined to say it pure and genuine.

“I can wait.” Vortex replied smoothly. “How long did you say you were gonna be?”

First Aid hesitated. “A couple joors.”

“That’s gonna cut into our reservation time. Want me to reschedule?”

The former Autobot medic crossed his arms over his chest and nodded, though he seemed reluctant to agree. “Yeah. I’m sorry but Soundwave came in with the aerials and I’ve been backed up since the morning trying to clear out all the appointments I had.” He shrugged, “We could always move it to my place if you want.”

Vortex grinned. “You sure?”

The red and white mech nodded, “Definitely.”

“Well, alright then. I’ll see you after your shift.” Without preamble, Vortex leaned down to press his forehead against the medics, murmuring something intelligible that made the medic hiss out an obscenity and jerk his helm back. But there was no malice in his actions, just a flare of disbelief before he cast an apologetic stare in the symbionts’ direction and made his way back through the door.

Cold silence met the medic’s departure, primarily from Frenzy and Rumble who had frozen in their respective positions and were staring up at the former Decepticon with their jaws hanging wide.

Vortex let out a dark chuckle, “He’s got a thing for rotaries.” Then he snapped his mask back on and made a smooth exit. Ravage huffed, not at all surprised. She’d made a few discovered during her time infiltrating the Autobot headquarters back on Earth and dispute the tidbits of tactical data she gleaned, she also managed to make quite a few discoveries about the Autobots themselves.

First Aid was a kinky little glitch. With a penchant for rough interfacing that was no doubt sated by Vortex, who was all but the living embodiment of some of his personal fantasies.

Rumble and Frenzy sat upright, still seemingly in shock. “The slagger wasn’t lying.” The former stated, a disgusted look crossing his face.

“I think Imma be sick.” Frenzy groaned, grabbing his helm with both hands and curling into himself. “That was too weird.”

The ebony feline let out a small huff, “You’ll get used to it.” She said, readopting her former position on the chair but adjusting slightly so her paws hung little ways off the edge. The three of them eventually got back to the tasks they’d been engrossed in before Vortex had made his appearance and an uneasy peace settled in the empty waiting room of the clinic. Once or twice a nameless patient made their way through but they were treated and left with only an occasional glance at the gathered symbionts. Once the night cycle came about, Rumble and Frenzy were curled into a pile of red and blue limbs on the chair beside Ravage, snoring gently as they recharged with empty Energon cubes underneath their dangling pedes.

She herself was lapping at her own cube, savoring the charge dancing on her glossa and the happy warmth her healing siblings and resting brothers were transmitting via the quantum link. It was on the brink of recharge that a sudden spike of surprise jolted her awake and she quickly siphoned herself off and focused on Soundwave, who was carefully smothering waves of distress.

Eons of companionship made it difficult for him to completely cut himself off from her and she prodded at him, sending a questioning pulse.

_~What is it?~_

Soundwave was silent for a moment before he responded _. ~Megatron.~_ He didn’t sound particularly pleased when mentioning his former commander. Not that Ravage could blame him; despite the majority of the Decepticon army being told that the slagmaker had sought an armistice to restore their race, Soundwave was one of the few who knew the real truth for the former gladiator’s truce. Needless to say, it didn’t sit well with him.

Ravage’s ears flattened against her skull. _~What does he want?~_

A pause. _~An audience with him and Optimus Prime. He says it’s urgent.~_

That caught the feline’s attention and she cocked her helm to one side, optic ridge rising in surprise. _~When?~_

Soundwave let out an exasperated mental sigh. _~Right now. But I can’t leave. Laserbeak and Buzzsaw haven’t been released yet.~_

Ravage pondered the situation for a moment before replying. _~Take Rumble and Frenzy with you. I’ll stay behind and make sure ‘Beak and ‘Saw get back to our apartment.~_ Sensing that her host mech was going to argue, Ravage added _. ~You know he’s going to send someone after you if you ignore him. And besides, if Optimus wants to see you, then I assume it’s something serious.~_

Soundwave couldn’t help but agree albeit begrudgingly. _~Let me know the moment they get out of surgery. And please be careful.~_ His words were said out of genuine affection rather than doubt in their ability to take care of themselves; he knew that Ravage and any of his symbionts could handle anything thrown at them but it was a remnant of the war that the telepath had never been unable to shake. Rumble and Frenzy said it was annoying but Ravage found it endearing.

_~I promise.~_

Not a moment later the door next to the empty receptionist desk opened and Soundwave briskly walked out, red visor dim as he made his way towards the recharging twins. Nudging them gently, he got them to wake, ignoring their grumbling and cursing as he knelt beside them expectantly.

“Wazzup, boss?” Rumble said, visor retracted as he wiped his dreariness from his optics with the back of his hand.

“Megatron summoned us.” He said lowly. “Frenzy, Rumble: will accompany me.”

That woke them up immediately. All recharge dispelled from their systems, they rose to their pedes and waited for their host mech to open his docking chamber, transforming and landing inside with the fluidity that came with eons of familiarity and practice. It was impossible to miss the eagerness from their sides of the bond and Ravage rolled her optics, bemused.

Soundwave reached out and placed his hand between her ears, thumb carefully tracing the black alloy as he gently reminded her of their previous conversation. She nodded, tilting her helm into his touch for a brief moment before pulling back and gesturing towards the door with a quick jerk of her head.

“Best not to keep them waiting.” She said softly.

With a nod, Soundwave straightened and made his way out the door, leaving Ravage in silence with only the soft glimmers of her aerial siblings to keep her company.

 

~~~

 

Jazz couldn’t find it in him to be surprised when an encrypted message from Optimus woke him up in the middle of his recharge. He’d been out among the crowds of Iacon for most of the day, pretending to be strolling and admiring the view when in reality he was searching for another potential employment opportunity. Prowl had stopped trying to call him after the first few orns of unsuccessful attempts and sent a text that promised to write him a letter of recommendation if he ever needed one.

It was a sentiment Jazz appreciated but also one he knew he couldn’t accept. He’d fucked up and the last thing he wanted was to mooch off of Prowl’s frustratingly giving nature.

He assumed one of two things was going to happen to him once he made it to Optimus and Megatron’s shared office in the government assembly building. One, he was about to get the biggest telling off since Cybertron’s lights came back on; maybe he’d see some time behind bars, he had nearly killed someone, after all. Or two: OP probably had some trash that he needed to be taken out. The saboteur liked that last option a little more than he cared to admit.

It most certainly wasn’t a visit for pleasure. No one hung around Jazz for the sake of his company unless it involved interfacing or drinking.

The hallways of the assembly were unusually clean and the air smelled of fresh wax and faint ozone from working engines. The gleaming golden alloy was shiny enough you could see your reflection and the paintings lining some of the walls were positively atrocious. No wonder Sunstreaker was always in a bad mood; it was a disgrace to his profession.

Speaking of which, the yellow twin was silent as he led the saboteur through the maze of corridors but all it took was a single discreet teek of his EM field to notice that he was anything but happy to be in his vicinity. There was the usual amount of annoyance that’d become a constant for him but underneath it was a shimmering wave of intense dislike and it definitely wasn’t aimed towards the horrible artistry passing them by.

Luckily for them, they made it to their destination before the uneasy tension could boil over. Jazz gave a brief nod towards the yellow mech who took his usual position beside the doors; Sideswipe was already there.

Jazz ignored the way Sideswipe stuck out his shoulder to jostle him when he slipped through the doors, knowing that it was only a tame version of what the twins probably wanted to do to him. Not that he didn’t deserve it.

The saboteur lifted his helm, his trademark grin plastered on his face as he prepared to meet the two mechs that summoned him here. But the words died on his glossa when he noticed the dark blue plating of an all too familiar mech already sitting in one of the unoccupied chairs opposite of Megatron and Optimus’ desk. With a slight tilt of his helm, a red visor popped into view dimming slightly in greeting before turning back to the two current leaders of Cybertronian society. Megatron gave a terse nod and Optimus flicked an antenna in greeting; the air was tense and heavy, palatable almost.

Something was definitely wrong.

Smile faltering, Jazz took the seat beside Soundwave, careful to sit far enough that their plating didn’t touch. “What’s this about?” He said a little too nonchalantly, gaze flickering between the three assembled bots before settling on the red convoy that’d summoned him.

Megatron and Optimus exchanged a cursory glance, some unspoken words crossing between them before they let out similar sighs. In any other setting, Jazz would have called their mirrored tics adorable.

“We’ve got a problem.” Megatron said succinctly, lips twisting to one side in disdain. “A monumental one.”

Beside him, Soundwave straightened up minutely. It suddenly occurred to Jazz that the telepath was privy to all the details and he was the only one still in the dark. For some reason that made him uneasy and his optics narrowed into slits behind his visor, leaning forward to rest his hands on the edge of the desk.

“What is it?”

Optimus replied this time. “We’ve received information that’s led us to believe that someone is actively working against us. Particularly the current representatives that’ve been elected into the assembly.” He paused, allowing the saboteur to absorb the information.

Jazz scoffed, “What’s the source?”

“Representative Pion of Uraya.”

Soundwave went still beside Jazz, an action that neither Megatron nor Optimus seemed to notice. Cataloguing it in his mind, Jazz focused instead on the details of the information being presented; dormant SpecOps subroutines flared to life, increasing his processing power until a familiar hum spread throughout his entire frame. This was his element, what he was designed and curated to do. Observe, analyze and react. Unlike Prowl whose processor was useful primarily for tactics, Jazz’s systems were interconnected. When his processor settled on a course of action, his body was conditioned to react instantaneously; he lived in the present, learning from the past but never foolishly allowing the future distract him.

Optimus recounted their conversation with Pion, the representative from Uraya that had been elected by default after his main rival had been indisposed by unknown forces. Some claimed foul play but the lack of a concrete police force in the city state made an investigation impossible and the marshal had declared the case inconclusive. Pion received threats on a daily basis, most worded subtly enough to instill fear but delay the authorities action but he’d kept doing his best to bring order to the city that meant so much to him. Even with so many bots against him, the tenacious minibot had somehow created a steady schooling system, hostels for youths that found themselves without creators and a small clinic that offered basic medical services. Uraya wasn’t wrecked with poverty as most of its counterparts, with a couple business owners setting up shop and helping elevate the city’s infrastructure but it lacked the cohesiveness of more stable locations like Iacon and New Vosian.

Pion wasn’t the people’s choice but he was making progress, a fact that even his enemies seemed to understand because his latest threat had been a note declaring that if he wanted to remain functioning then he would have to forgo meetings at the assembly for the foreseeable future.

It’d been written on a datapad with no traceable serial number so it was unclear who’d sent it.

“Threats against an individual are unfortunate and inevitable most of the time,” Optimus said. “But a threat against the representatives is a threat against the government itself. We can’t ignore this.”

Soundwave titled his helm to one side. “Query: other senators, received similar threats?”

Megatron grimaced, “We haven’t asked. It’s not something we’re eager to make public.” He let out an exhausted exvent. “Especially not when everyone is at everybody’s throats.”

“Politics ain’t as easy as ya thought, are they?” Jazz scoffed. “Does it make ya regret being so hard on the former Senators, Megs?”

A dark scowl was aimed at the saboteur who grinned in turn. Optimus cleared his vocalizer, placing a placating hand on his bonded’s arm, directly over where his fusion canon used to reside. Megatron seemed to notice too because he pursed his lips and shut up, arm falling into his lap.

“We need to keep this as discreet as possible,” Optimus continued, hands clasped on the desk surface. “We’ve come a long way in our reconstruction efforts and if word gets out that we have a terrorist on our hands, I fear to imagine how the population would react.” His voice was grave and the unspoken words hung heavily in the air.

They couldn’t afford stirring up anything that could lead to another war.

“So, what’s the plan, OP?” Jazz chirped, turning to face his former commander. He might have been a little too eager with his tone because Optimus winced behind his mask. Jazz chose to ignore it.

“You and Soundwave will be sent to Uraya to investigate the base of the dissension Pion has reported. Your primary objective will be find who is responsible for making the threats, whether it’s a single individual or an organized group. Observe and report, don’t act upon any revelations unless there’s immediate danger to you or to the Assembly, understood?”

Jazz frowned, “Wait, me and Soundwave?”

“Yes.”

The saboteur cast a side glance at the blue host mech, the band of light across his visor narrowing along with his optics. He hadn’t forgotten their little interaction in that bar in Petrohex, it was quite a pleasant memory, but sharing drinks with a mech while inebriated was one thing. Going on a mission and expecting them to cover your aft was another topic altogether.

A small part of him wondered if word of what he’d done had actually gotten to Optimus and if this was his way of saying that he didn’t trust him.

“I can do this on my own.” Jazz said as he turned to regard his former commander, aiming for a nonchalant tone but coming off confrontational.

Optimus sighed, “Jazz—“

“Do you doubt Soundwave’s capabilities, Autobot?” All optics went to Megatron, who was staring down the red and white mech with a dangerous smile on his face. Jazz was acquainted with that glint in his optic all too well and he grimaced as his battle protocols all but begged to be brought online.

“One bot’s a shadow, two’s a crowd.” The saboteur replied smoothly, citing the SpecOps motto he’d all but instilled in his agents throughout the war. “If you want me to sneak in undetected, I can’t have someone else with me. And besides, me and Soundwave have never worked together. He doesn’t understand my methods and I don’t know his.” He couldn’t help but add, “And besides, I’m the only bot who could ever sneak into your base undetected. On either side.”

“Negative.” The monotone voice jolted Jazz out of his preening, prompting all attention to go to the blue host mech that was fixing a rather stern glare on the saboteur. “Jazz, incorrect.”

Jazz smirked, “Oh, really?”

“Affirmative.” Soundwave retorted effortlessly, pivoting his torso slightly to face him. “Jazz’s infiltrations, detected 57% of the time. Presence known, resources for capture and interrogation, simply unavailable. Data retrieved, often useless.”

If Jazz didn’t know any better he would say that the drone of a communications officer was preening, a hint of superiority lingering beneath that monotone voice. It spurned Jazz’s competitive nature and several retorts, some of them obscene, teetered on the tip of his glossa but he bit down on it. Now wasn’t the time to be measuring each other’s metaphorical spikes.

Optimus was quick to use his silence to slip into the conversation. “Jazz, this, as described before requires discretion. You two are unofficially partaking in this mission and it is our hope that nobody is ever to learn of this event once you leave this room. Communication will be a necessity and Soundwave’s quantum bond with his symbionts is the only method that won’t be at risk of interception.”

“—But Soundwave is less versed in the areas of social interaction,” Megatron remarked, smiling when Soundwave’s visor flashed irritably at the accusation. “So that’s where you come in. Use that bothersome glossa of yours to glean information. I assume it shouldn’t be an issue for you? Or do you think navigating two bots at a time is too much for you?”

He was being goaded. Jazz knew that as well as he knew that he was black and white. But he couldn’t resist taking the bait, it promised a challenge and he’d been itching for an opportunity to truly let go without worry about the consequences. Maybe he wasn’t aiming to kill someone, but playing bots was a specialty of his and damn him if he was going to throw this chance away. He’d survived Soundwave during the war. He sure as Pit could survive a simple mission with him.

“It’s no problem.” Jazz grinned, leaning back into his chair and crossing his arms over his chestplate. “Consider it done.”

“Finally.” Megatron groaned, casting an exasperated glance at Optimus. The Prime merely nodded in response.

“A few modifications will be given to you for the mission. Once you receive them, I expect you to be on your way to Uraya as soon as possible. Soundwave, you shall let Megatron know which symbiont you wish to designate as your courier.”

The host mech nodded once. “Understood.”

Jazz turned to regard his new mission partner, amused when he noticed that the telepath’s field was reigned in tightly around him. “So, Sounders. Guess that means we’re partners.” A black hand was extended towards the host mech, palm up and inviting.

Soundwave stared at it for a moment, gaze flickering briefly to the saboteur’s face before he sighed and accepted it. His hand was still as warm as Jazz remembered from all those vorns ago, back when they’d made peace in that dusty little stretch of desert in Nevada. But pleasant memories weren’t the only things he associated with those hands; those blue digits had invaded his frame the few times he had actually been captured, cutting and slicing at his joints and helm until he’d blacked out from the pain or found some way to escape. It made Jazz’s vitals tighten with apprehension but the pushed that feeling down; history or not, he couldn’t let it interfere with the mission. But that didn’t mean he’d let his guard down. With that in mind, he gave that hand a firm shake, mostly for posterity’s sake and retreated his own back to the safety of his own lap.

Compressed files of their mission parameters were handed to them in the form of data slugs to be downloaded and then destroyed. Ratchet was on hand to perform repaints and simple frame enhancements and both Soundwave and Jazz were ordered to go meet up with him in the Assembly medical bay.

Both mechs left without a word, simply nodding (or smiling in Jazz’s case) and then quietly exiting together. They were both mentally preparing themselves for the task that lay ahead but unfortunately, neither was aware of the turmoil that awaited them.  


	5. Catalyst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz and Soundwave embark on their joint mission but Uraya proves to be more than either of them expected.

_“Be still, my soul, and steadfast._

_Earth and heaven both are still watching_

_Though time is draining from the clock_

_And your walk, that was confident and quick,_

_Has become slow...”_

 

—The Gift, Mary Oliver

 

 

 

Peacetime suited Ratchet.

That was the first thing that crossed Jazz’s mind when they’d arrived to see the red and white medic grunting affirmations and gesturing for them to come in, closing the doors to the bay behind them. His finish was shiner, his hands steadier and his EM field shone with good natured disgruntlement.

Not that you’d have been able to tell by just watching him; he still wore his trademark frown and several times during the procedures he’d threatened to dent the back of Jazz’s helm with whatever tool he was holding when the saboteur made some smart remark or tried to goad Soundwave into reacting. But the usual anger and despair was gone from his EM field and Jazz couldn’t help but feel relieved that the medic was fitting in well.

Probably had something to do with the rumors flying about that a certain former Knight was trailing after the CMO but it was all speculation at this point. Juicy gossip that Jazz would happily delve into once he got back from his mission.

The saboteur was silent for the duration of the repainting procedure and subsequently put into brief medical stasis when adjustments to his physical build were made, awakening to really dim lights and arms that seemed too heavy to lift. He’d complained and only received a small lecture that let him know that his body had been given alloy reinforcements; bots in Uraya tended to be heavy weights, old miner classes and former construction workforce bots so Jazz had been given a few modifications to make it appear like he was at least suited to heavy work.

A shiny minibot would’ve stuck out too much, Ratchet had said, subtly making a jab at the saboteur’s smaller size. Jazz would’ve made some smart remark about size not mattering but he found all attention diverted to readjusting his balance gyros once his pedes touched the floor and he was guided off the medical slab. A brief internal scan told him his basic infrastructure was the same, no adjustments to his coding or his struts. It was mostly just aesthetic; placed in front of a mirror, Jazz took a moment to gauge his appearance, smiling at the new black and red paint job that he now sported. His Earth based racing decals had been replaced with faded Cybertronian markers, two of which were visible on the buff shoulder pads he’d been given. His visor was more angular and blocky, shining a deep crimson that was an all too familiar hue. Luckily his helm shape was still the same, and his audio horns were untouched.

He was still the same stature, but at the very least he didn’t look too much like the infamous Autobot saboteur.

“Ya outdid yourself, Ratchet.” Jazz said, spinning around on one pede and stopping with a rather dramatic flourish.

The red and white mech let out an indignant huff, focusing on rebooting Soundwave who was still out cold on the second slab. Jazz pursed his lips and stared at the sleeping telepath through the mirror, noticing that he’d been given similar modifications and a repaint that was more ebony in nature. His visor, when it flared to life along with his processor, was a deep amethyst.

Jazz wasn’t sure whether to be unnerved or intrigued.

“Ya gonna do anything about his monotone?” Jazz inquired, sauntering over to lean against the bottom edge of Soundwave’s slab.

Ratchet ignored him, reading out a couple lines of code that were being displayed on the datapad he held in his hands. Two thin cables were connected to Soundwave’s wrist port and the telepath had his helm to tilted to one side, internally observing alongside the medic.

“He’ll be fine.” Ratchet said once he finished, unplugging and subspacing the datapad. He proceeded to help the telepath onto his pedes, asking questions relating to the now ebony mech’s center of gravity and whether or not he was experiencing any discomfort.

Soundwave shook his helm. “Modifications, satisfactory.” He said, sounding vaguely thankful.

“Good.” Ratchet stepped back, optics narrowing as he observed the two mechs side by side. He lingered a little too much on Jazz’s face but shrugged and murmured something about having seen worse.

Jazz couldn’t help but grin.

“I’ve brought a couple wartime subroutines back online for both of you. But unfortunately, we can’t have you running around with military grade weaponry integrated to your systems. So, I’ve modified your weapons: simple blasters, energy blades, things you could easily purchase on the black market nowadays. I’ve also added a couple more filtrations systems to your tanks because chances are you won’t be getting too much decent Energon down in Uraya and the last we need is for one of you to contract some damned virus and jeopardizing the entire operation.” Ratchet gestured to their wrist ports. “Both of you have counterfeited ID badges listing you as neutral refugees so on your journey over, do try to familiarize yourself with your new identity.”

Jazz smiled, extending his hands and observing as a yellow hologram materialized in his palm, warm and buzzing. The profile picture was rather unflattering but at least the name was passable.

“Ricochet.” He drawled, liking the way it rolled off his glossa. Turning to stare at his mission partner, he craned his helm in an attempt to sneak a peek at Soundwave’s own ID card. “What’d you get?”

“Reverb.” The telepath said, voice low and quiet. He didn’t sound pleased and quickly dissipated the information tag. Jazz frowned slightly but let it slide, not too keen on finding out why an undercover name made for such unpleasantness.

Eventually, they said their goodbyes to the medics, vaguely promising to keep his work intact and made their way outside of the Assembly building. Soundwave said something about checking up on his symbionts and asked if they could meet at the local shuttle station during their scheduled departure time.

Jazz shugged. “Just be there.” He said noncommittally, turning his back on the telepath and heading his own way. The saboteur would’ve liked to grab the nearest shuttle and ditch the former communications officer but even he knew better than to dabble with such a risky mission. So he took the scenic route to their scheduled meeting place, sending a text to Prowl thanking him for the offer but stating that he already had employment. Chances were Optimus and Megatron weren’t keeping him in the loop yet and it’d make things less complicated if they didn’t have a tac-net mech snooping around them for details.

Prowl answered immediately.

_::You’ve been avoiding me.::_

Jazz rolled his optics. _::What makes ya say that?::_

_::Intuition.::_

_::Ah, the infamous Prowlish intuition. How could I forget?::_

_::...You know I don’t hold what happened against you, right?::_

Jazz halted, glancing around and noticing that he’d made it to station ahead of schedule. It was quiet with only the buzzing of flickering fluorescent lights above and the murmuring of a few bots here and there along the platform keeping silence at bay. The saboteur found an empty seat near the railing and sat down, hating how his frame creaked under the added weight. Mission hadn’t even started and he was already missing his lithe frame.

He scoffed softly, staring at the previous message blinking on his HUD in his visor. Prowl’s words were reassuring and for a moment, Jazz was tempted to thank him and delve into the easy conversations he knew the two of them could share. But a small part of him remembered the way Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had looked at him during his debriefing and the saboteur knew that Prowl had been affected more than he was letting on.

And the twins had been privy to it all...it must’ve been something unsettling if they were going as far as being passive aggressive towards him.

An inquisitive glyph was sent his way, tentative and slightly hesitant. Prowl was walking on eggshells around him, the former tact and confidence long extinguished by past events.

Sighing, Jazz wrote back the only thing he could think of.

 _::I gotta go. Early work day tomorrow.::_ He hesitated, then added. _::Thanks.::_

He shut off the messaging link before a response could be sent through, lifting up his helm in time to catch sight of a familiar purple visor appearing from the opposite end of the station. Jazz pursed his lips, rising to his pedes to meet the telepath head on.

“Got everything sorted out?”

Soundwave nodded in affirmation.

“And the little cretin staying behind?”

“Ravage.”

Jazz couldn’t help the groan that escaped him. “Aw, damn. She’s the only one I actually liked.”

“Apologies,” Soundwave replied, tone dismissive. He glanced down at Jazz’s empty hands and titled his helm in question. “Have you purchased tickets?”

The saboteur shook his helm, “Nah. Wasn’t sure if you’d show and I didn’t want to waste my shanix. But I can go buy them if you--”

He was cut off by a pair of two thin tickets lifted in front of his visor, their destination written in neat little glyphs along the silver side. Frowning slightly, Jazz took one and stepped back from the other mech’s looming stature.

“Thanks.” Jazz bit out, rather begrudgingly. But Soundwave wasn’t paying attention to him anymore; standing upright, the mech was looking down the tracks with a faraway look on his face, amethyst visor dimmed.

Jazz’s scowl faltered and settled into a façade of impartiality.

That was the last that they talked out loud. Standing in silence, they waited until the shuttle arrived and sat in two open seats near the back of the transport vehicle, Jazz taking the aisle seat while Soundwave settled for the window. It was a couple hours to Uraya so the mechs spent their time communicating via encrypted shortwaves, analyzing their false bios and planning where they would begin investigating. Jazz voted for the local hostels but Soundwave insisted on scouting Pion’s residence; in the end, after a few frustrating bouts of terse discourse, they agreed to look into the hostel while Rumble and Frenzy scoured the Representative’s abode.

From then on, they simply thumbed through the information Ratchet had given them.

 _Ricochet_ was a Nuetral, hailing from Polyhex that had left before the war had even broke out. He specialized in the arms trade but lost his spoils to pirates on his way back after the armistice was universally announced, leaving him with knowledge but nothing to show for it. He’d never been bonded before and was skilled in three different dialects, none of which were known on Cybertron. That almost made the saboteur curse out loud; one of his assets was already out the window. What else, was he blind too?

For a second real fear wrapped around his Spark and he scanned the rest of his information, letting out an inaudible sigh of relief when he realized that he didn’t have any physical or mental handicaps. Ricochet was just a normal mech down on his luck.

A perfect candidate for the deep dark recess known as Uraya.

The trip was shorter than Jazz anticipated and by the time the announcer let them know they were coming up on the exit for Uraya, the saboteur was able to see stars speckling the night sky before the shuttle delved into the underground alcove that served as Uraya’s shuttle station. The transport came to a screeching halt and both mechs were on their feet, taking heed that they were the only bots getting off on this stop. The doors opened and a musty smell bombarded the both of them, making Jazz recoil and Soundwave suck in a bated invent; they started out by scanning their surroundings, taking note of how empty Uraya’s underground station was and how cracks and grime littered the floor underneath their pedes. The curved silver walls were littered with graffiti, some glyphs looking like remnants of the war while others carried the smell and look of freshly applied paint.

Fluorescent lights flickered above them, emanating a low buzzing sound that was almost loud enough to set their dental plates on edge. But that wasn’t the worst thing. A faint crackling sound emanated from the neon sign plastered above the tiny pair of doors that served as the exit, welcoming them to what should have been a livelier destination.

Jazz let out a heavy sigh. “Lovely.”

Soundwave hummed, wordlessly agreeing with the saboteur’s sarcasm.

It doesn’t escape either of their notices that neither of them feel threatened in such a demeaning location. Any self-respecting bot would probably make a beeline for exit to escape the claustrophobic platform, self-defense protocols whirring to life and noseplates scrunched as the disgusting smell of ozone, old motor oil and burned rubber all but fought to cling to any metal surface in the vicinity. But Jazz and Soundwave knew that, deep down, such a location was very tame.

They’d walked through battlefields that stank of the dead and survived for millennia constantly looking over their shoulders, safety forsaken as they struggled to survive. The war may be over but those instincts and experiences never left them. They simply buried them in little boxes and shoved them into the back of their processors; sometimes, one of those little boxes would tip over and everything would come flooding out...but they’d pick up the pieces and simply continue on.

Without looking back at his partner, Jazz took a step towards one of the graffitied walls, activating the recording setting in his visor to store the memory of the defaced property into his data bank for future reference. Some of the glyphs were unintelligible, written in a haste, and those that were offered nothing useful. Pink scribbles revealed that a bot named Yuss apparently hates another mech named Invictus, red streaks told of a pair of lovebirds that promised each eternity and dark black smears said something else entirely that had Jazz twisting his lips in disgust.

He leaned back, arms crossed over his chestplate dubiously. From the corner of his optics, he saw Soundwave doing the same to another wall, stature stiff and erect. He didn’t seem to be having much luck either because he shook his helm and made his way back towards the saboteur’s location.

“Anything?” Jazz asked, finally breaking the silence between them.

“Negative,” Soundwave replied. Amethyst visor flashed towards the exit and he gestured towards it with a tilt of his helm. “Suggestion, explore the city and find accommodations for the night cycle.”

Jazz scoffed, “Tired already, mech? We haven’t even gotten started.” But he relented and relaxed his stance, his arms falling to his sides.

The saboteur wasn’t sure what he was expecting but he knew for a fact that when he followed Soundwave through those small metal doors, and up a rather precarious flight of stairs, he hadn’t been expecting this.

The emptiness of the station was a distraction from the actual level of activity the tiny city-state possessed. Almost at once, the two of them found themselves lost in a sea of pedestrians of all shapes and sizes, all chattering loudly and excitedly. Tall buildings of darkened alloy loomed over them, decorated in arrays of different colored neon signs and each sporting several lit windows that served to showcase the life that existed inside the buildings.

On the floor, street vendors were shouting and bots milled around them, indulging in the merchandise they offered. Once or twice, the saboteur saw a youngling run by only to disappear in the wave of mechs walking about.

It was mesmerizing, reminding Jazz of Polyhex, back before the Senate had become corrupt and dissension had poisoned the lifeblood of his home city. Uraya, with its tiny little eateries, merchants and luxurious night clubs...had a bit of everything. Sure, it was grungy and the air was stale but there was life here and for a moment, Jazz forgot that this was supposed to be one of the planet’s impoverished sectors.

A tap on his shoulder, brought him out of his musings and he turned to stare at the telepath. “What?” He asked.

“Follow me.” Soundwave said, hand reaching for his. Jazz deftly evaded the attempted contact and instead took a step closer, knowing that Soundwave was simply trying not to lose him in the crowd. But that didn’t mean he was eager to be seen holding the former Decepticon’s hand.

The telepath thought nothing of it, pivoting on his heel and lead them both to a small eatery. It was a small tiny shack with tables and chairs lined outside of it, the tops covered in colorful little tablecloths that reminded Jazz of those Mexican serapes he’d seen on Earth.

He reached out to touch one, smiling softly at the soft texture and letting his fingers trace little incoherent glyphs among the delicate fibers. Soundwave observed him for a moment before leaning in and asking, “Query: Ricochet prefers Visco or High Grade?”

Red visor dimming slightly, Jazz glanced up at the telepath, lips pursed. “What?”

Soundwave pointed at the small shack’s front, where a holographic menu listed out the available drinks. Underneath the alcoholic tab were only two entries, neither of them being the one Jazz preferred. But a warning ping from his fuel tanks reserves told him that now wasn’t the time to be picky so he settled for the one he knew would provide the same amount of kick.

“Visco,” he said sweetly, smiling with as much faux warmth as he could.

Soundwave ignored his gesture, merely nodded and left to go order their drinks. Rolling his optics, Jazz took a seat at the table, ignoring the creaks his movements made and instead focused on appearing as nonchalant as possible. His external sensors were picking up everything, however and he upped the sensitivity on his audio horns as well. It wasn’t something he normally did but his time during SpecOps revealed that the things you’re looking for tend to pop up when you least expect them.

Scattered conversations were hard to discern but he quickly complied an algorithm that would let him know if any key words were said in his vicinity. With that, he turned to regard Soundwave and watched the telepath carefully as he arrived at the table with a pair of cubes; one was neon green and the other was the boring blue of normal Energon.

Jazz accepted his with a grunt, eyeing the odd color and giving it a tentative sniff before trying it. It was tangy, far too acidic to be the Visco he was familiar with but it wasn’t horrible either. It felt cool and numb as it went down his intake and he cleared his throat at the unfamiliar sensation. His optics went to the mech sitting across from him and he nearly did a double take as he took in the sight.

“ _Reverb_ \--?!” Thank Primus he remembered to use his code name.

The mech turned his unmasked faceplates towards him, lips hovering on the rim of his own cube. Lips, nose.... Soundwave had taken off his facemask.

“What is the matter?” Soundwave asked, and Jazz could only stare as those smooth looking lips moved to form every single syllable. He caught glimpses of smooth dental plates, a silver glossa and the faint glimmer of oral lubricant. For the briefest moment, the saboteur was tempted to reach out and touch the glib looking derma, if only to verify that what he was observing was real and he wasn’t experiencing hallucinations from drinking a spiked imbibe. But he somehow managed to keep his hands on top of the table, fingers instead twisting into the colorful fabric.

“Your faceplate...” Jazz said, voice laced with static.

The telepath’s lips gave a minute twitch, a small action that did something odd to Jazz’s insides. “Ricochet, finds it disturbing?”

 _No,_ the saboteur wanted to say. _Anything but._

But the former SpecOps commander had a reputation to uphold and no pretty face was going to rob him of it. Even if it was a face he’d wondered about for eons. So, he rebooted his optics and readopted the frown he’d been carrying since Optimus and Megatron had given them their mission. “You don’t drink?” He asked lamely, gesturing towards the blue cube Soundwave was nursing between his hands.

The telepath glanced down at it, lips pressing together briefly. “Negative,” he replied.

“Why?”

“Symbionts find it distasteful.” Jazz frowned at the answer but let it slide, not interested in nitpicking the delicate ecosystem of a host mech. He did however, delve into a more relevant topic.

“Ya still planning on finding a place to crash?”

Soundwave nodded, taking a swig from his cube. “Reverb, believes it to be prudent course of action. City, unfamiliar. Rest and base of operations required to plan accordingly.” He gave a cursory glance around them and lowered his voice so that only Jazz could hear. “Rumble and Frenzy, located inn nearby. Price ranges are amenable.”

Jazz shrugged archly, “So long as it has two berths, I ain’t complaining.”

Soundwave gave him an odd look for a moment but effectively returned to his usual aloof demeanor to finish his drink. For the most part Jazz was able to do the same, a crease etched between his optics as he focused on finishing his drink and _not_ look at the unmasked telepath sitting a couple feet away.

Thankfully, Soundwave wasn’t planning on dragging out their pit stop and he promptly finished his cube and snapped the familiar white mask back over his face. Jazz felt the tension in his frame dissipate and he was able to enjoy his alcoholic beverage in peace. Mutely, Soundwave rose from his position to dispose of his cube and as he brushed past Jazz, the saboteur couldn’t resist teeking his EM field.

A cold wave of unease washed over him, like one of those cold fronts he’d experienced during his exploration of the Artic on Earth. Involuntarily, Jazz shivered and he wondered why the telepath had such so much agitation and tension in his field. Come to think of it, Soundwave had been acting strange ever since the debriefing, spacing out for long periods of time and tensing whenever someone walked too close to them.

It contradicted with the cool and focused communications officer Jazz had known throughout the war, who could enact the most sadistic of torture without flinching and endure atrocious injuries without so much as a grunt of pain. His outward demeanor was normal enough but not even he could hide his emotions, especially not from someone like Jazz who had molded his entire life around being able to read mechs like the back of his hand.

When Soundwave made his way back to their table, Jazz was careful to reign in his own field, purposefully keeping his own drink half full for the sake of hanging back. The telepath gave no outward indication that he noticed Jazz’s intrusion and instead proceeded to fold his hands over the table, glancing around and occasionally meeting the saboteur’s gaze.

Jazz didn’t like the feeling gnawing at his vitals and he knew that it was stuff like this that lead to two-bot infiltration teams meeting an untimely (and often brutal) end. Communication was key and even if he wasn’t fond of his current partner, Jazz understood that they had to be on the same page or else the mission was over before it even began.

Internally cursing, he cleared his vocalizer to catch Soundwave’s attention, the light across his red visor thinning into a thin band of crimson as he stared down that amethyst gaze.

“You okay, mech?” It was nonchalant, a simple conversation starter.

Soundwave titled his helm to one side, “Affirmative,” he replied easily, no hesitation in his voice.

Jazz sighed, shaking his helm before propping an arm up on the table and resting his chin in the palm of his hand. His former SpecOps officers would immediately know such a position meant they were about to get a lecture, and certainly not a pleasurable one, but Soundwave was unaware of his tics and simply stared at him.

“Look, I know you and me don’t exactly like each other and that’s fine. We got a pretty nasty history between us and it ain’t something that’ll go away with a peace treaty. But we gotta job to do and I won’ be able to work unless I know ya got my back. If anything’s bothering ya, I need ya to let me know. Don’t matter if it’s something about me, just lemme know.” He paused. “During this mission, the war _don’t matter_ , alright? It’s just me and you. No secrets, no _lies_.”

Soundwave was silent, the only indication of his functioning being the quiet whirring of his internal fans which promptly shut off. His hands, which were clasped between them tightened for a brief moment, visor flickering. Jazz wasn’t sure if it was in regards to what he’d just said or if something else was bothering the telepath but he expanded his field, far enough so that the host mech could teek it and realize that the saboteur’s words rang with truth.

But the strong familiar field Jazz had experienced in Petrohex never made an appearance; instead, Soundwave merely bowed his head. “Okay,” he said quietly, voice softer than anything Jazz had ever heard from him. But it wasn’t his tone of voice that caught the sab's attention, it was that single glyph of “okay.” No “affirmative.” Just... _okay_.

For some reason, Jazz felt that that simple word held a deeper meaning for the telepath and the saboteur accepted it with a dup of his own helm. “Okay,” he echoed, smiling for a moment before downing what was left of his drink. He rose from his seat and threw it away, pausing to acknowledge his partner and gesturing for him to follow with a tilt of his helm.

They made it to the inn the twins had scouted for them without incident and the tiny establishment wasn’t the prettiest place to crash but the floor looked clean and the mech who received them, a tiny little orange minibot with bright green optics that introduced himself as Saber, was waxed and presentable.

“One room?” he asked, smiling and riveting his gaze between the two.

“Two berths,” Jazz quipped, flashing his most dazzling smile.

Saber raised an optic ridge, “Oh?”

Jazz nodded, hating how he had to stand a little on the tip of his pedes to be able to see the mech in the optics. “We may look like we’re madly in love but we’re just friends; don’t worry, you’re not the first to make that assumption.”

The orange mech sniffed, “Well, if you insist.” He said, proceeding to scan their ID cards and gathering their credit chips. The system pinged affirmation of the payment going through and he offered Jazz a circular data disk. “Scan this at the door and it should open right up. If not, you may have to push a little on the handle.”

Jazz’s visor brightened. “Thanks!”

Saber smiled in acknowledgment, waving at Soundwave and deflating when the action wasn’t returned. The telepath seemed unaware of his lapse in decorum and simply followed the saboteur to their room.

When Jazz finally managed to get the door unlocked, they were met with a pair of all too familiar smiling faces, red visors illuminating their red and blue twin frames. The saboteur let out a dramatic sigh, “Oh joy, my favorite pair of troublemakers.”

Rumble and Frenzy didn’t pay his words any heed, instead proceeding to circle around him, visors flashing with curiosity as they took in his new appearance. The both met up in front of him, hands on their tiny hips.

“You look kinda _hot_.” Rumble quipped, grinning.

“Yeah!” Frenzy echoed. “Black and red suit ya!”

Jazz twirled on the tip of one pede, pretending to admire his own frame. “Ya really think so? Or are ya just saying that ‘cause we match?”

Frenzy opened his mouth to reply but Soundwave stepped forth, shaking his helm. “Rumble. Frenzy: desist.”

“But Boss...!”

“Desist.” The word was said forcefully and both symbionts groaned, crossing their arms over their chestplates and grumbling. But they knew better than to argue and proceeded to run towards the berth situated next to the window, all but cannonballing onto the surface. The berth squeaked under their weight and Jazz flinched, half expecting one of the leg struts to shatter but the little frame kept itself upright and the saboteur found himself impressed.

Soundwave trailed after them, giving their shared room a perfunctory scan before settling down on the edge of the berth his symbionts had commandeered. Jazz stepped into the room, brushing past them to look out the large window that all but made up a third of the wall opposite of them. It had a nice view, with the inn situated on the outskirts of the city center, the lights they’d been greeted with were little specks in the distance and only the artificial lights that dotted the buildings and streets illuminated the area.

A giggle brought his attention back to the room and he caught sight of Soundwave gently cradling one of Rumble’s arms in his hands, blunt digits poking the delicate joint in a way that had the blue symbiont laughing.

Frenzy was situated on Soundwave’s back, calmly explaining how his blue twin had done some daring feat and pulled a strut in his arm. Rumble defended his honor hotly but kept still as his host mech carefully popped the offending piece of metal back into place with a barely audible click. Both murmured their thanks before asking if they could finally recharge; as Jazz watched, Soundwave opened his chest compartment and the two little heathens jumped right in, the sound of their transformations smooth and effortless, concluded by the click of the glass compartment shutting behind them.

Finally, in silence, Jazz made his way over to his own berth, sitting down on the edge and smiling politely at the carrier mech.

“Ya take good care of them,” he noted.

Soundwave glanced down at his chest, hand twitching as if wanting to press over the opaque material. “Twins...unruly.” He said simply.

“I noticed,” Jazz replied. He tried to catch the telepath’s gaze but that amethyst gaze never met his and the saboteur resisted the urge to roll his optics. “So...ya think this is the work of just one individual? Or do ya think we have an organization on our hands?”

“Not an organization.” Soundwave said a little too quickly.

“We don’t know that,” Jazz countered. “We haven’t explored the city yet--”

“We won’t find anything.” The host mech interrupted firmly, his grip on his knees tightening just a fraction.

Jazz was taken back by the cold certainty in this tone, the violent flash in his visor as he turned to face the saboteur. A small part of him was inclined to agree; organized crime was something that existed on Cybertron but those groups with the power to back up challenging the Prime and his Lord High Protector were nonexistent. But it was wrong to assume and Jazz was not one to call a mission to a close before it’d even begun; Optimus was the one person he’d never let down. Disappointed? Yes, quite often. But he’d never betrayed the trust the Prime had placed in him for the eons that they’d known each other.

And he wasn’t about to start now.

“We have an early start tomorrow,” Jazz said softly, dropping the conversation and hating the tension building up in the air. He didn’t understand, couldn’t find the source, and it unnerved him. “We should get some recharge.” He maneuvered himself onto his back on the cushioned berth, hands clasped together over his abdomen. “Good night, Soundwave.”

Soundwave sighed. “Agreed.” He replied, adopting a position similar to Jazz’s on his own berth.

But neither of them was recharging; their online systems hummed and buzzed in the empty room, mixing with the muffled voices of their neighbors and occasional berth creaks. Jazz couldn’t forget the unease he’d teeked off of Soundwave and even if he knew the telepath wasn’t going to slice his Energon lines in his recharge, he wasn’t entirely comfortable offlining with him across the room. He mentally sighed; he’d probably have to ask Saber if there were any other room vacancies in the morning.

The meager amount of shanix on his credit chip resting in his subspace couldn't help but mourn the thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably something I shoulda said at the beginning but if any of you are interested in asking stuff about any of my fics, feel free to shoot me an ask on Tumblr. My username's the same just lacking the capitalization.


	6. Misunderstandings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something rotten in Uraya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got food poisoning this weekend and was wrought with painful body aches and an unruly stomach so that's my reason for this late update. I'm still in pain and I can't sleep without a bucket near my bed but this story wouldn't leave my head so I just had to finish this chapter. There's probably some glaring errors in there so lemme know if ya find any. 
> 
> Things are definitely speeding up now. 
> 
> Finally.

_“Sometimes I just like the hollowness of it all_

_The stare you give_

_The hesitation of your lies_

_Because for just a moment_

_I feel above you...”_

 

—S.M Pastore

 

 

 

Jazz couldn’t recharge.

It began on the first day of their joint mission, after his partner’s odd behavior had his processor working overtime as it recognized patterns in the telepath’s tics and struggled to simultaneously catalogue findings relating to the mission. Processor aches become a constant and that was enough to make the saboteur’s ire flare up at the most unexpected of times. During the war, he could juggle multiple personality profiles, various lines of code and not even break a sweat.

Now, he struggled to stay awake on the dawn of the second day as he observed a pair of suspicious looking mechs sauntering through the downtown Uraya Square. Nothing unusual at first; dirty and with the builds of construction bots, their rust red and green colored frames weren’t really much to look at. They’d bumped into him as he sat next to the Energon fountain, muttering something about riffraff before laughing and walking off.

It wasn’t something that usually rang alarm bells in the saboteur’s mind, rude bastards are a dime a dozen. But gut feelings were something else entirely; something dark and sickly coiled in Jazz’s belly when they’d brushed EM fields, a sour taste dancing across his glossa that had his face twisting into a grimace.

He’d thrown the last of his Energon jellies to the little aquatic robotic organisms swimming in the fountain and disappeared into the crowd, sensors zeroed in on that disgusting aura that belonged to the rust-red mech. He radioed Soundwave his intentions with Morse code, waiting for a confirmation even as he sauntered towards his targets.

Soundwave didn’t respond right away.

A moment of silence stretched on and Jazz felt his grimace deepen. He radioed another confirmation because if he was going to infiltrate something nasty, he at least wanted someone to know where to look on the rare chance he ended up being the remains of the day. The two mechs made a turn down a less crowded street, glancing around for a brief before turning down a darkened alley. Jazz grit his dentae and used the protruding tubing from an alley further down the street to climb onto the tops of the buildings, hunching down to keep his shadow to a minimum in the soft light of the rising star.

It wasn’t until he rested on the edge of the building that formed one side of the alley the two bots had sauntered into that he finally received a confirmatory ping from his partner. It was a brief databurst, asking for his whereabouts.

Jazz almost laughed; he felt reminded of Prowl, back when he’d been a fresh special operations officer and the tactician had been his designated commanding officer. Several times Jazz had been standing on the precipice of victory, off the record, and Prowl had demanded to know the schematics of how he got there, ignoring the beneficial results. Since Jazz knew better, he suspected Soundwave was keeping tabs on him. Something about Uraya made the telepath uneasy and Jazz’s impromptu disappearing act was doing nothing to ease the situation.

But the saboteur wasn’t about to apologize.

This was probably a dead end, after all.

Decision made, Jazz descended down and crept up towards the door, visor set to its dimming setting and armor clamped tightly to his body. Soft music permeated past the large metal door as he pressed himself against it, rhythmic waves making the metal vibrate beneath the palms of his hands with an all too familiar beat that would’ve had the saboteur tapping his foot and dancing right alongside it at any other time. Giving an experimental sniff in the air, the smell of ozone and antiseptic undertones had the red and black mech twisting his lips to the side and he resisted the urge to recoil.

A frag bar.

Of course. He wanted to scoff but instead, he rose to his full height, adopted his most dazzling smile and knocked against the door.

A tiny eyehole opened up immediately, a bright scarlet optic all but glaring at the new arrival.

“Password?” A tired voice droned.

“Morticulus.” Jazz replied easily, repeating the phrase he’d heard from the two mechs beforehand.

The sound of the door creaking open had him taking a step backwards and he craned his helm up as the tall gangly figure of what appeared to be a triple changer was revealed. He resembled a misshapen Blitzwing, with one half of his frame appearing to be the makeup of a tank while the other portion had kibble you’d find only on flight framed mechs. Jazz’s commlink beeped with yet another demand from Soundwave, this one more harshly worded than the previous three but the saboteur ignored him in favor of greeting the bouncer and stepping inside the establishment.

Immediately, the smells became much more intense and the music was loud enough to reverberate deep inside of Jazz’s frame. He lowered the intensity of his audials and dimmed his visor to the lowest setting, optics shuttering several times as they struggled to adjust to the strobe lights and after effects machines. When he could finally see without wincing, he was met with a circular room with a large occupied stage in the middle of it; a metal walkway connected an obscured portion of the area and a bar sat in the far recess, a bored looking bartender handing out refreshments to drone waiters that zoomed around and handed the brightly colored imbibes to the scattered patrons.

Hoots and hollers sounded as a lithe mech sauntered out from the curtain of the obscured area and onto the walkway, pastel green frame adorned with an assortment of false jewels and bright paint, all of which formed glyphs that alluded to the mech’s profession. His modesty panel was absent and his interface array was laid bare for all to see; he flaunted the displayed hardware with a sense of confidence, ignoring the jeers and looks in favor of performing a routine that he no doubt had rehearsed countless times in the quiet times of privacy he could glean.

Jazz watched for a couple kliks before dropping his gaze and pretending like he was searching for a table. There were a couple at the very back that were empty, because everyone wanted a front row seat to the entertainment, and Jazz slipped into a chair that allowed his back to press against the wall and observe quietly from the darkest corner of the room.

But he wasn’t looking at the dancing mech on the stage; his optics were zeroed in on the familiar red and green frames of the two mechs that had pushed past him before, both of which were situated near the base of the stage and being disgustingly loud. They were drinking neon green cubes, throwing credits at the lithe mech and shouting obscenities that had the saboteur’s servos clenching subconsciously.

A small part of him kept asking what it was that he was doing here. It was obvious the two mechs were sleezebags, disgusting mechs with indecent proclivities but certainly not worthy of Jazz’s time. He’d expected them to be meeting with a client, maybe a

It wasn’t until a rough tap on his shoulder that he was startled out of his observations and he turned to see a pair of golden optics staring at him from behind a clear visor. It was a femme, with built in goggles resting over her optics and a top-heavy frame that narrowed down into a thin waist; a pistol was snugly fitted in a holster around her thigh and a myriad of dents and scratches littered her silver panels, the lack of uniformity making intriguing shadows dance across her frame under the flashing lights.

Jazz smiled. “Yes?”

The femme cupped her a hand around her mouth and leaned a little towards his audial. “Wanna drink?”

The question made the saboteur frown slightly but he nodded. “Sure.”

A scoff escaped the femme, who Jazz noticed was nursing a cube of normal Energon, a rarity in an establishment such as this. For a moment, he wondered if perhaps his lapse in observation had made him the subject of another bot’s scrutiny but none of the usual warnings were flashing in his mind. Just the usual feeling in his gut that told him to tread lightly because any bot could garner the sudden desire to be the one to see your Spark gutter.

“If you really wanted one, you woulda known to go up to the bar and ask Trion for one.” She sat down and took a swig of her drink and smirked at him, a silver glossa peeking out to capture any stray drops that lingered on her lips. “Something tells me you’re not here for pleasure, are you?”

Jazz laughed, “Now, lovely. What on Cybertron would make you say that?”

The femme shrugged. “Intuition.”

A strange sense of deja-vu tugged at Jazz’s Spark but he fought the emotion off, deleting the line of code that struggled to lead him back to olden memories that held calm blue optics and a black and white color scheme. He couldn’t afford any of the sentimentality that accompanied such thoughts, especially not now.

“Some say intuition is nothing but folly,” Jazz remarked, leaning forward to cross his arms on the table surface. He cocked his helm to one side, a competitive smile playing on his lips.

“Ah.” The femme said, shaking her helm. “Perhaps. But I know of a particular being that states that the gut is never wrong. The mind plays tricks and the heart is blind. It’s a saying I’ve lived by for a while and it’s gotten me pretty far. Survived the war and all.”

Recognizing her Earth related vocabulary, Jazz searched his databanks for information on the femme. Her speech patterns and demeanor said Autobot but the way her EM field was tightly reigned around her spoke of affiliations with less than savory acquaintances; Decepticons kept the one thing that betrayed their emotions under lock and key, rarely expanding it unless in the presence of close acquaintances or significant others.

A confirmation popped up on his HUD and he narrowed his optics as he read the information, hacking through medical seals and disciplinary subpoenas. The femme noticed his change of expression and frowned. “Hey. Was it something I said?”

“No.” Jazz lied smoothly, storing the information away for later use.

“Liar.”

The word made Jazz freeze and he felt his battle computer hum to life, algorithms warming up and his subsytems already mapping out escape routes and possible take down maneuvers. But he kept his outward appearance nonchalant, smiling and shaking his helm like any amused mech would in the presence of a stranger.

“Didn’t anyone teach you it’s impolite to go around calling bots you barely know liars?” Jazz said slickly. “It’s unbecoming of a femme such as yourself.”

The femme went silent at those words, lips pursed tightly until they formed a thin line across her faceplates. Her optics narrowed into slits and thin optic ridges furrowed. “What’s your name?” She asked after a moment of awkward tense silence, gulping down the rest of her drink and setting the empty cube down with a little more force than necessary on the table surface.

Jazz didn’t even flinch. “Ricochet.”

“Hmm.” The femme pointed at herself with a thumb. “Demaxx."

“A pleasure.”

Demaxx snorted. “Is it really? I thought we’d established that you’re not here for pleasure.” Some of that tenseness was gone from her frame, a sudden desire for sarcastic quips taking its place.

Jazz raised his hands and shook his helm. “Nah, femme. You established that. I’m just a poor mech you ambushed without probable cause.” He gestured at the establishment with a sweep of one arm. “You got plenty of riffraff in here who seem to be in desperate need of a good talking to.”

Demaxx’s golden optics followed his line of sight, ghosting over the assortment of mechs and femmes with something akin to indifference lingering in those amber pools. She blinked and returned her attention to Jazz, shoulder tires rising and falling in a haphazard shrug. “I see bots indulging themselves,” she said matter-of-factly. “That’s what places like these are for.”

Jazz stifled the surge of anger that rose inside him at her words and instead let out a chuckle. “Maybe.”

They sat in silence for a while, the music now a sensual crescendo that matched the light swaying of the mech’s new dance. The jeers were lesser, as if the patrons were slowly finding themselves snapping out of their interface-crazed hazes and finally allowing themselves to be mesmerized by the performance being presented. Different colored optics followed the sweeps of a thin arm, the dipping of a crested helm and the subtle smiles of handsome lips. Jazz watched the movements carefully, muttering softly under his breath as he caught onto the rhythm and critiqued it in his head.

Beside him, Demaxx was watching too but there was a lack of lust in her optics, as if this were a show she had seen far too many times for the magic to work on her. It made Jazz wonder what she was even doing here; she wasn’t the politest bot on the planet but she wasn’t leering creep either. Being here almost seemed like a chore to her and for a moment, Jazz wondered if she was someone looking out for snooping bots such as himself.

But Demaxx’s body language gave no indication that she was stalling or playing him. She leaned back on the chair she was in, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankle while her arms were crossed against her chest. The lights refracted in the crystal of her visor, making a plethora of colors swirl around her heavy-lidded optics.

“I’m not here to bust you.”

The saboteur raised an optic ridge. “Oh?”

Demaxx turned to look at him over her shoulder and smiled. “You were following those two glitching motherboards over there, weren’t you?” She gestured with a jerk of her chin towards Jazz’s original targets who were now on their fifth intake of that green drink and laughing boisterously as they reached for the dancer on stage. The saboteur knew that lying made things worse in situations such as these so he merely shrugged. “They’re rude.”

Demaxx laughed. “I won’t argue with that. No doubt they probably owe you money or some other slag like that but word of advice? Take it outside. You have no idea how hard it is to scrub Energon out of these floors.” She reached out to tap his shoulder and stood up, an easy smile on her lips. “See ya around.”

Jazz waved goodbye, smiling. It wasn’t until she disappeared into the throng of bots that he rose from his seat and all but sprinted for the exit. Suddenly the music was too loud, the smell of ozone too strong and the laughs and heckles made his audials ache. He hated how he stumbled out of the establishment, the triple changer giving him an odd look before slamming the door behind the saboteur as he staggered into the dingy alley.

His feet seemed to take control of his frame and before his breathing finally regulated and that uneasy feeling in the pit of his vitals disappeared, he found himself right back where he started. The planet star was high in the sky and the Energon fountain found itself surrounded by the normal traffic of the city-state’s population, the closed businesses on the outskirts finally open and attracting customers. Younglings sat around the edge of the fountain, some in couples and others in the company of a creator and they squealed and laughed as the tiny aquatics in the pale blue liquid danced in effort to attract attention and goodies.

It made Jazz’s Spark stutter and he turned away from the sight, well aware that he’d probably have to go back to the inn and face the fact that he’d ditched his mission partner and went AWOL during the time that they’d planned on investigating one of the local hostels.

When he was a couple kliks away from his destination, he opened up his backed up comm link and sent an inquisitive ping to Soundwave.

The telepath answered immediately in the form of a databurst that expressed his disappointment and anger.

 _::Sorry::_ Jazz replied, hating how sincere the apology was. He’d messed up and very nearly attracted some unwanted attention.

_::Actions, foolish::_

_::I know. Ya don’t have to rub it in.::_

_::Negative. Jazz, impertinent. Mission requires cooperation. ::_ A brief pause and then Jazz flinched as his own words sounded through the communication line. _::No secrets. No lies.::_

Saber jumped up as Jazz stormed in through the front entrance of the inn, the datapad in his hands nearly clattering to the floor in his surprise. The minibot squeaked out a greeting, one Jazz replied to in the form of a haphazard wave, and craned his neck to stare at the retreating black and red mech before he disappeared down the hall.

Jazz stuck his key card into the room he shared with Soundwave and grimaced as he found himself face to face with the telepath, whose amethyst visor flashed dangerously in the darkened room.

“Honey, I’m home!” Jazz said sweetly, shutting the door behind him with the heel of his foot. He leaned against the door and smiled, hating how the corners of his mouth trembled with the effort. He wasn’t sure if it was because he was feeling guilty for being the first one to nearly jeopardize their mission or if the apprehension from the bar hadn’t completely worn off.

Soundwave’s engine gave a low growl in response. “Humor, not appreciated.”

The saboteur pursed his lips and glanced away. “I know.”

“Negative.” Soundwave took a step towards Jazz, and the saboteur’s optics widened behind his visor as he noticed that the telepath’s EM field was wide open and flaring, its edges aggressively meshing with the saboteur’s. There was ire, disappointment and to Jazz’s surprise, worry. But it wasn’t the saccharine taste of a friend worrying about a friend; it was bitter, domineering and made the black and red mech flinch in response.

Soundwave leaned towards him, sniffing audibly before leaning back with disgust. Jazz resisted the urge to punch him when an all too familiar tinge seeped into the telepath’s field; it was the kind of emotion so many mechs had adopted when dealing with him, before, during and even to some extent after the war. An unspoken I-knew-it when proclivities were exposed and held over his helm like some perverse form of blackmail.

All desire to apologize disappeared in the wake of the telepath’s tone and Jazz shouldered past him, heading for the small washrack. “I’m going to clean up,” he said, pausing in the doorway. He didn’t look back at the black mech standing like a statue in the room. “When I’m done, we can talk about the mission.”

Jazz waited.

Soundwave let out a small vent, the sound of hissing hydraulics indicating the rise and fall of his shoulders. “...Affirmative.”

With that, the door between them closed with an audible swoosh and both mechs were left to their respective silence.

 

~~~

 

Soundwave’s cassettes were perhaps one of the few Decepticons that Jazz had truly despised during the war. It wasn’t because of hatred or disgust like with Megatron or Vortex, but rather because of the competition that they had posed when it came to infiltration. The rivalry with Soundwave was borne out of circumstance; he was the host mech of the tiny heathens that snuck through the tiny cracks in seemingly impermeable Autobot defense systems, inventing new ways to make Red Alert fritz and setting the bar for their corresponding fields.

Jazz had lied when he said his favorite symbiont had been Ravage. True, the feline was amusing when riled, hissing and spitting like some domesticated kitty cat, but she was ultimately boring when she conditioned herself to become immune to Jazz’s charms. After a couple eons, unless he found a way to get her on his interrogation slab, all she ever gave him was flicks of her ears and tail before disappearing.

Laserbeak had a long-standing crush on him, borne out her love for shiny things and finding his visor nothing short of mesmerizing. The saboteur had found out about this in the oddest of ways during an infiltration meeting, coming upon a very bashful aerial confessing that tiny tidbit to her host mech in the safety of their room while the saboteur observed from a ventilation duct. He’d been oddly humbled.

Buzzsaw hated him and Rumble found him amusing.

But Frenzy was something else entirely. He was innocent, in an odd war veteran sort of manner, and carried himself in a way that would make lesser bots inclined to believe he was a youngling. But he was much older than half of the Decepticon and Autobot armies and it showed in his speech patterns and mannerisms.

Jazz liked talking to Frenzy. Sure, maybe a couple Earth hours of spending time with the symbiont wasn’t the best indicator of compatibility but he’d spent eons forming friendships with his current friends and never had he felt this odd spark of camaraderie appear so early during the process of making an acquaintance.

“The boss is mad at you.” Frenzy murmured as the two of them made their down a crowded street, the tiny minibot all but trotting to keep up with the saboteur’s longer strides.

Jazz glanced down at the black and red cassette, lips twitching into the start of a smile. “Is he now? For a moment, I thought he was flirting with me.”

Frenzy huffed. “You need to take this seriously. When he’s mad, he’s impossible to be around. You need to apologize to him.”

“I did.”

Frenzy glared. “ _Properly_. He’s not expecting you to get down on your knees and grovel. He just wants you to mean it.” He paused. “You gotta admit, what you did this morning was pretty stupid. Running off without so much as a warning...Rumble thought someone kidnapped you.”

Jazz couldn’t help but laugh at the statement, the words conjuring up a very amusing visual in his mind. “Frenzy, if someone kidnapped me, ya’d have been the first one to hear the yelling.”

“You yell?”

“Nah.” The saboteur’s visor flashed with mock danger. “But I know several ways to make a mech’s Spark gutter without damaging their vocalizer. Makes for some entertaining screech metal.”

Frenzy let out an amused scoff, the macabre imagery not at all fazing him. “Right. I almost forgot who you were for a second.”

Jazz smiled widely, “Be thankful you only got the verbal reminder.”

The two descended into communal silence, following the path that had been highlighted for them in the new blueprint of the plan that Jazz and Soundwave had outlined earlier during the day. Neither of them had broached the subject of Jazz’s lack of tact but they’d managed to set aside their obvious disquietude for the sake of the mission. It was one of the things that Jazz found himself appreciating about the telepath; he was able to separate the professional from the personal, a trait that Jazz had perfected during the war, and set all his focus on proceeding with an operation that they’d both fallen behind in.

Rumble and Soundwave were going to interrogate local hostels, a place that had become a hot spot for bots on hard times that could easily paint a path towards any festering dissension that could be possibly be pushing mechs to threaten the representatives of the makeshift Cybertronian government.

Jazz and Frenzy, being the more hospitable of the group, were tasked with investigating Representative Pion’s abode. The minibot had been made aware of their presence in the city once he’d been able to step away from the summit in Iacon and he’d welcomed them eagerly.

“Ricochet!” The tiny ebony mech smiled and beckoned them inside of the large estate, meeting them and even being the one to open the front gate of the establishment. Frenzy had disappeared long before the government figure had appeared, already having found a loophole in the place’s security and doing some investigating of his own.

Jazz was left with the social interaction, a feat the saboteur had absolutely no trouble partaking in. With a well-placed grin, Jazz shook the Representative’s hand and followed him inside, visor set to record and gait slow and measured.

“You have no idea how much I appreciate your presence,” the minibot said, relief evident in his tone and field when they managed to make it into the mech’s office. “Please sit.” Pion took his own place behind a large desk and gestured for Jazz to take the equally comfortable looking chair opposite of him.

“Thanks.” Jazz said, “But you have to understand, Representative, that this is nothing more than a formality. We’re here to investigate, not act.”

“But the note I offered was proof.” Pion said, a slight quaver in his voice. “I was told the situation would be taken care of.”

Jazz shrugged, hoping his sympathy was transparent. “My orders still stand.”

Pion shook his head. “No. This won’t do.” He glanced around, optics wide. There was a desperation in his field that he was struggling to hide and it didn’t take long for Jazz to notice that those furtive glances he’d been sneaking on the way up hadn’t been to look for things that weren’t there. He was making sure that there wasn’t anything there. A sparse number of domestics loitered in the halls of the estate, the shoddy state of the establishment serving as a prime example of the reality. Dust and grime covered areas that were not used and even Pion’s office had corners of trash bins filled to the brim with cubes that held that vaguely antiseptic smell that Jazz had grown so accustomed to.

Pion’s physical appearance held the same disarray of his estate and Jazz couldn’t help but feel pity for the mech.

“I’d like for you to tell me everything you know,” Jazz said softly, trying to coax the mech out of what seemed to be an impending anxiety attack. “Any information you give, names, numbers, physical evidence, can be useful.”

Pion’s blue optics shuttered a couple times, short vents escaping him before he nodded. “O-o-okay.” He clasped his hands over his desk and made an effort to sit up straighter.

Jazz nodded encouragingly. “Good. Now tell me, are there any bots you can think of that wish to bring harm to you or anyone in the Senate? It can be anyone, a friend or coworker who voiced any opposition to the government...or maybe even someone who isn’t too happy with the way things are being handled in their city-state?”

The ebony mech shook his head. “Uh...No, not at the moment.” He lifted a finger to his lips, the pad of his finger thrumming against his lower lip inquisitively. Suddenly, he perked up, optics bright. “There’s a mech that moved into the city when it was reconstructed. Odd mech, very flamboyant and he is considerably wealthy.”

The saboteur tilted his helm to one side, “Odd how?”

“He’s a known purist,” Pion said softly. “He talks about how the only true Cybertronians are the ones born from hot spots in their respective city states. I recall that he didn’t take the announcement of the union between the grounder and Seeker in New Vosian all too well.”

Jazz’s optic ridges furrowed slightly. “Does this bot have a name?”

“Argyrus.” Pion said and his lips twisted in disdain, as if the glyphs tasted sour on his glossa. “He was one of the main competitors for my position as representative.”

“Was he the candidate that was indisposed?”

Pion frowned, as if he wasn’t expecting Jazz to know that bit of information. But he shook his head nonetheless. “No. That was Nox. Argyrus didn’t make it past the preliminaries when the votes were called but his campaign had attracted quite a bit of attention. Many bots probably think my victory was some sort of sabotage since he was the obvious favorite.”

Jazz shook his helm. “Democracy is an unpredictable thing,” he said. “Social popularity isn’t everything.” Those were words Jazz knew he’d probably be eating if this were a formal debate because at the peak of their current government sat a mech whose very words had been capable of toppling millennia of civilization and sending an entire race to the brink of self-extinction. But the saboteur wasn’t here to argue over post-war politics nor was he present at this meeting as the saboteur who fought said mech on the battlefield numerous times. He was Ricochet, a Nuetral sent at the behest of the Prime to scout for answers.

Ignorance in wording could be forgiven this one time.

Pion said, “He’s been able to find a stable footing in the Energon refinement industry so he’s amassed a considerable amount of wealth, y’know, the kind that offers you protection even when your word is scandalous.”

Jazz filed away Argyrus’ name, knowing full well the next target on his list of investigation. Soundwave was going to have a field day with that.

“I can imagine.” A small buzz of static sounded in Jazz’s audial and the saboteur’s shuttered his optics, leaning back and opening his side of the line.

 _::We’ve got a problem.::_ It was Frenzy and he sounded tense.

_::What is it?::_

A pause. _Then, ::Do you think you can sneak outside of the mech’s office?::_

_::Not at the moment.::_

_::Okay, well, I hope your eons of undercover work help you keep a straight face--::_

_::Zee? Get to the point.::_

_::I’m in the ventilation systems, second floor. And I’ve discovered a myriad of binary explosives, armed and ready to detonate, lining every single duct from here to Primus knows where. Visual scans tell me they’re all remote detonated.::_

Jazz was silent for a long moment, face stony and Spark fluttering madly in his chestplate. He’d been expecting this to be a normal mission, an unsuccessful mission where a government official’s paranoia got the best of them and made their imagination run wild. But the start of the day had proven to the saboteur that this assignment was anything but normal.

There was something going on in Uraya and Representative Pion was proving to be an important piece to this complicated puzzle.

 _::Get out of there.::_ Jazz said to Frenzy, smiling when Pion frowned and made an inquisitive gesture with his hands. _::I don’t care what you have to do. Just get out.::_

 _:Don’t hafta tell me twice.::_ Frenzy said, relief seeping into his voice. _::What about you?::_

 _::Don’t worry about me.::_ Jazz said softly. _::I got everything under control.::_

The line cut off and Jazz focused on Pion, EM field reigned in to prevent the minibot from catching onto any feelings that would give away his knowledge of his newfound revelations. “Representative, it appears that I’ve run into a bit of a situation.”

Pion frowned. “Situation?”

“Yes. It seems I’ve forgotten to focus on the physical documentation of this investigation. Pictures of you and your staff, to make appeals to the higher ups more...personal.”

The minibot’s frown deepened. “Physical documentation, like pictures?”

Jazz nodded. “Yes. Do you mind if we can start with a group photo in front of your estate? Just so we can get an idea of how many bots actually live in a property as grand as this?”

Pion’s look of confusion never left his face but he acceded to the saboteur’s request. “That seems reasonable. I’m afraid most of my staff is absent today but there are plenty of them left for this to work.” He brightened up considerably and was on his feet in an instant. “I’ll go round them up."

Jazz lifted up a finger, “Wait, if you could just—“

But the minibot was gone before Jazz could even think to intervene. Wasting no time, Jazz was on his feet too, going through the minibot’s desk with the speedy and agility of a mech with eons of practice. His comm link buzzed again, the line opening without even waiting for his confirmation.

_::What the slag are you doing?::_

“Now’s not the time.” Jazz said through gritted dentae, snapping open a drawer and pulling out a stack of datapads. He quickly turned them on and plugged in, skimming through them as he searched for any information that could yield any useful intel. Nothing. A few tablets later, the saboteur took to searching around the room, carefully looking for any hidden cameras or indications that someone had been in the office for reasons other than to indulge in the Representative’s company. Frenzy was still questioning him, expletives quickly taking over the majority of his vocabulary the longer Jazz took to actually step out of the damn office.

But the saboteur was relentless. Even when he met dead ends, he couldn’t stop himself. The smarter part of himself would say it’s desperation; he’s been in a rut ever since the war ended, reeling from an unusual end to the only thing that brought him purpose, reeling from the termination of a courtship that had meant the universe to him and drowning in enex in the hope that maybe one day his EMF chip could fail and he’d pass on in a kaleidoscope of yellow to the Afterspark. He’d failed so many fragging times...he couldn't let this end in disappointment too.

Maybe if he’d been more careful, more alert and less emotional he could’ve noticed that the familiar voice was no longer laced in static and sounding in his audial. That it reverberated off the walls of the office and tiny hands were on pulling on his leg, a red visor staring up at him angrily.

It took a well-placed punch to the back of his knee to snap him out of his stupor and the saboteur held onto the edge of the desk to keep himself from collapsing. Blinking, he looked down to regard the familiar black and red frame of Frenzy and his optics widened behind his scarlet visor.

“What the frag are you doing here?!” He hissed, righting himself and glaring down at the symbiont.

Frenzy’s hands balled into fists and he shook his head, dentae bared in a growl. “I’m here to get you out, you fragger! Come on! We have to go!” He leaped up and grabbed onto Jazz’s hand with an iron grip, using his momentum and all of his strength to drag the saboteur towards the door. Jazz was still for a moment, glancing back at the disarray he’d created with an almost longing flicker in his EM field but he suddenly remembered that his life wasn’t the only one at stake now and that changed everything.

He snatched his hand out of Frenzy’s grip and scooped the symbiont into his arms, cutting off the tiny bot’s cry of indignation mid-sentence. Without wasting any time, Jazz found himself sprinting out of the office and through the maze of hallways, following the route he’d memorized when Pion had first brought him in here with a very pissed off symbiont nestled snugly under an arm.

“Put me down!” Frenzy all but screamed, smacking at Jazz’s arm with enough force to dent metal. The saboteur ignored him, knowing that he’d feel a lot better knowing where Soundwave’s little heathen was during a situation like this one. They had no way of knowing when the place was about to blow but chances that someone had seen them entering Pion’s estate where high and the last thing Jazz wanted to do was leave these things to chance.

He passed by a couple bots, telling them to get the frag out of the building if they knew what was good for them. A couple followed his advice while a select few rolled their optics and continued with their work. When the saboteur made a sharp turn down a select hallway, he ran smackdab into a large bulky mech and fell backwards onto his aft with a resounding clang that echoed down the empty hall.

“You slagging--!” Jazz grimaced, making sure that Frenzy was unharmed before glancing up at the mech they’d run into. For a moment, the saboteur thought it was Soundwave; his fritzing optics saw only a boxy silhouette and a darkly colored visor that shone with an all too familiar air; but when he was able to focus, he noticed that the mech wasn’t his mission partner at all.

He had a similar build but he was dark green, had a thinner waist and he lacked a faceplate, his visor shining a dark bright orange. Smooth lips twisted into a cold smile and Jazz felt that familiar apprehension from the bar coil in the pit of his belly. “Going somewhere?” A deep melodious voice asked the question and Jazz fought a shiver that threatened to creep up his spinal strut.

Frenzy stilled in Jazz’s grip.

Rising to his pedes, the saboteur shook his head. “My creation’s not feeling well,” Jazz said, pivoting his torso so that Frenzy was hidden from the mech’s view. “I need to get him to a clinic.”

The strange mech’s smile faltered. “Creation?”

“Yes,” Jazz said, attempting to edge around the bigger mech. He stifled a growl when he found his path blocked by a large blocky arm. “Please. Move aside.”

“Representative Pion has a personal medic that resides in this establishment. I could show you to him if you’d like.”

Jazz held his ground. “No, thank you. I have my own medic.” With a little acid thrown into the last word, the saboteur ducked underneath the offending arm and continued on his way, readjusting his grip on the symbiont in his arms so that the stranger behind him couldn’t catch a glance of the tiny bot.

It was an instinctual reaction and Jazz couldn’t understand why he did it. But the speculations perished when he found himself sliding down the flight of stairs that led him near the foyer of the establishment. He saw the open door of the estate on the opposite end of the room, Pion standing with a considerably large group of bots around it.

None of them were outside.

The minibot glanced up when he heard Jazz’s footfalls, worried look morphing into a smile. “Ricochet! I got everyone you asked for--!” He trailed off when he saw the look of panic that was no doubt etched onto Jazz’s face, a frown replacing the delight when he also noticed that the running saboteur was carrying a silent tiny bot under his arm.

Only a couple meters separated them and for a moment, Jazz could feel nothing but relief. He didn’t care that Pion was confused or that the strange mech in the hall had given him an odd vibe or that he’d nearly fragged up the mission earlier on in the solar cycle.

He was going to deal with the fallout later. All he had to do was get himself and Frenzy outside and everything would be fine.

Unfortunately, Jazz wasn’t a mech that was prone to good luck. In fact, some would argue that he was a magnet for trouble. Many bots thought so and for a while, Jazz had been able to brush off the words with a smile and a wave of his hand, escaping danger with the grace and skill of some Cybertronian equivalent of Earth’s Houdini.

But when the world suddenly erupted with the cacophony of powerful detonations and the colorful vision of safety disappeared in a swirling hot vortex of red and blue, Jazz realized then that maybe everybody had been right. As his body wrapped around the tiny bot in his arms and the red and black armor on his frame reached extreme levels of heat, boiling and warping and melting, the saboteur expected his life to flash before his optics.

However, only a single thought passed through his processor in that split second between the pain and the welcoming darkness.

Primus fragging hated him.


	7. The Rift Unspoken Of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of failure, everyone tries to deal with the fallout and move on. But what exactly is there to move on from?

_“It is both a blessing_

_And a curse_

_To feel everything_

_So very deeply.”_

 

—Mindy Åström

 

 

 

Sideswipe hated waiting.

He absolutely despised it.

Ever since he could remember opening his optics, he’d discovered that mundaneness was his arch nemesis and constant activity was a necessity to keeping him grounded and tethered to reality. He didn’t go crazy or anything if he was forced to sit still for long periods of time but he did get considerably antsy and irritated.

Sunstreaker tried to entertain him with little games he could come up with on the spot or archaic little things like “I Spy” or “Guess The Minibot”; Or sometimes more complex diversions like reciting olden languages both had on their hardrives and (in Sideswipe’s case) refused to look at. However, both twins were finding themselves thoroughly entertained for the first time since they accepted the gig of being Prime and Megatron’s personal bodyguards.

Both of the former wartime leaders had been on their toes ever since the explosion in Uraya and the twins knew it had something to do with Jazz and Soundwave’s simultaneous disappearance and the absence of the tiny minibot that had demanded an audience with them. As a result, it didn’t surprise them too much when the noises behind the door occasionally went from harsh whispering to full blown cussing and yelling. Sideswipe had never heard Optimus swear, not even during the war, so hearing that deep baritone utter things that would have been blaspheming to Primus and made Unicron smile was definitely a spectacle all on its own. But it was difficult to find any joy in the revelation in the face of the current circumstances and Sideswipe mourned not being able to laugh and jeer like he wanted to.

The Prime was missing one of his closest friends and Megatron was reeling from the sudden lack of reliability from the one bot that had been his constant before, during and after the war. Their differing perspectives on how to handle the situation coupled with the tension and stress of their positions festered until one or both exploded; arguments were common nowadays with the occasional forceful interfacing peppered in between.

Sideswipe had never heard Megatron cry out in anything other than pain and fury so hearing his sparse roars of ecstasy sometimes had him standing rooted in place with an odd concoction of discomfort, shock and mild arousal lingering in his systems. Sunstreaker was calmer about it so Sideswipe fed off of his twin’s serenity and squashed down his emotions before they got the better of him.

Today was one of those rare occasions when silence reigned behind the closed doors of the Prime’s office and Sideswipe hated himself for wishing that the two leaders would find something to argue about simply to chase the stillness away. He traced incoherent glyphs into the warm alloy of his staff, following the seams of the soldered panels with the tips of his fingers until he came across a chip in the paint and began to scratch at it. A small part of his processor wandered into his processor, picking at random memories in an effort to sate his boredom.

He’d barely found a memory of lazy morning interfacing with Prowl and his twin to amuse him when Optimus’ voice sounds, the pitch higher than normal in a tone that Sideswipe had learned to discern as surprise.

It was muffled but he seemed to be speaking to someone other than Megatron, whose deep gravelly voice uttered terse sentences that held an inquisitive edge. Not long after the two bots emerged from the room, prompting Sideswipe and his twin to straighten reflexively and follow the two errant mechs that were now making their way down the hallway. Megatron was muttering and Optimus’ blue optics were wide with hope over his faceplate, stride insistent as they made their way through the familiar maze of the building towards the medical bay.

Sunstreaker didn’t even get a chance to check the room before Optimus palmed the matrixpad beside the door and all but burst into the large expansive room, a sharp gasp escaping him as he took in the view before him.

Sideswipe brought up the rear of their small group, sidestepping past Megatron’s bulk to catch a glimpse of just what exactly had the Prime so worked up.

Soundwave was standing tall and erect beside an empty cot, torso pivoted towards Optimus as if he’d been caught by surprise by the storming red convoy. His red visor flashed as he regarded Megatron, dipping his helm in a minute greeting.

“Megatron. Optimus.” He droned and his monotone voice sounded distracted.

Optimus opened his mouth to say something but Megatron beat him to it, brushing past his bonded to point an accusatory finger at his former communications officer. “You were gone. For nearly _four quartexes_.” He hissed, back hunching and armor plates fluffing out in anger; it took all of the former gladiator’s willpower not to lunge for the blue mech’s throat. “I thought you were _dead_.”

The telepath met his former leader’s ire with his trademark coolness, accepting the scathing words with only another formal dip of his helm. “Apologies. Complications...arose.” He glanced away briefly, like a youngling lying through his dentae to a seething creator and Sideswipe can’t help the frown that crosses his faceplates. Some bots often think that his constant blathering and less than ostentatious vocabulary were indications of low level of intelligence but few bots are privy to Sideswipe’s keen sense of observation. It comes with the territory; he and Sunstreaker weren’t born with the working emotional balance they currently have between them and Sideswipe had to learn to be a damn good reader of body language and personality tics to survive his relationship with his twin.

He put those acquired skills to use out of curiosity, eyeing the telepath’s posture and mannerisms with keen interest.

The telepath wasn’t turning to face either of the Cybertronian leaders, and was hovering over the prone form lying on the cot that his hand was gripping tightly. It’s a position Sideswipe is familiar with as he’s spent much of his life in the telepath’s place, watching as medics pieced his brother back together and waiting for his other half to rouse from the depths of unconsciousness. There’s nothing but hopeful desperation in Soundwave’s posture and Sideswipe can’t help but feel curious as to who has the telepath so tensed up; probably one of his cassettes.

But regardless the red mech takes a couple steps forth to get a better look and he was startled to realize that he doesn’t recognize the other. It’s a mech, slightly bigger than a minibot and bearing silver panels that were all mismatched in hue. Ugly welts make up the seams of his armor and his faceplates are littered with faint scratches that were in desperate need of buffing out; there’s a familiar curve to his jaw, however, and Sideswipe’s optic ridges furrowed even deeper as he struggled to overcome the strange sense of déjà vu that was slowly coiling in his chassis.

He can feel the same emotions over on Sunstreaker’s side of the bond and Sideswipe turned his head to glance at his yellow counterpart, a mutual shrug shared between them.

“What happened?” Optimus demanded, voice harsher than he probably intended. But he was to wound up to care and turned his blazing blue optics on the former communications officer. “Soundwave?”

Soundwave hesitated. “Optimus--”

“They fragging went against my orders, that’s what happened.” All heads turned to the familiar owner of the gruff voice and mismatched colored optics followed Ratchet as he appeared from his office with a heavy metal box nestled snugly in his arms. Nobody said anything as he came upon the occupied bot and set the box down on the counter beside it, popping it open and pulling out a large syringe filled with a sickly looking green liquid. With a fluidity that spoke of eons of practice, he found an exposed wire in the silver mech’s arm and injected the medication, massaging the area briefly before retreating to dispose of his instrument.

“Ratchet?” Optimus asked, voice softer. There was desperation in his voice and Sideswipe winced upon hearing it; it spoke of just how much strain the Prime was under and the red frontliner couldn’t help but pity him.

The red and white medical officer sighed. “This,” he said, gesturing with a jerk of his chin at the prone form. “Is Jazz.”

Silence met his words.

Then Megatron’s engine gave a small growl. “What happened?” It escaped noone’s notice that his focus was entirely on his former third. Soundwave, surprisingly, was ignoring him.

“Their cover was blown,” Ratchet supplied. “As in literally. Remember that representative’s estate being blown up? Jazz was inside when the detonations went off and from what Soundwave has been able to tell me, the damage was severe. All of this...patchwork you see is a direct result of Soundwave having scavenged for parts and all but piecing our favorite idiot back together.”

Optimus gasped. “Is he...cognizant?”

Ratchet nodded, subspacing a datapad and tapping on its surface a few times before turning it to face the two errant leaders. A multitude of small charts hovered on screen, some familiar and others unknown; but for all the lack of medical understanding of the glyphs, everyone could tell that despite the saboteur’s lack of consciousness, he was stable.

“He was spouting off one of this ridiculous punch lines of his before I put him under.” Ratchet explained. “Mech’s EMF chip was slag but only because high grade was the only pain reliever the two of them had on their hands. I’ve administered an infusion of nanites that should help his systems dispel the intoxicant and repair some of the damage to his internal structures. I’ll have to perform surgery to put everything back in order but for the most part, Jazz is going to be all right.”

The red and blue convoy turned to face Soundwave, who was staring at the prone form of the saboteur with a razor-sharp focus that had Sideswipe reeling. The Prime stepped forward, optics roving over his former third before focusing on the red visor of a mech he had once considered his enemy. “Is that you were off the grid for so long? Because you were repairing Jazz? Ravage wouldn’t tell us anything...”

Mention of his symbiont had Soundwave straightening and turning to face the Prime and it was only then that Sideswipe noticed that the ebony feline had made herself scarce. Long before the DataNet become flooded with reports of Representative Pion’s leveled abode, Ravage had been the first one to alert them that something had gone terribly wrong. It’d begun with a strangled growl that she’d emitted in the hall while the twins escorted the two leaders back to their office in the Assembly. Optimus had asked her what was wrong and Megatron’s optics had darkened with understanding.

Ravage had told them something happened to Frenzy then promptly proceeded to keen and thrash wildly until Megatron managed to subdue and put her into temporary stasis. She’d disappeared not long after and nobot had heard a word from her; as a result, the fighting that Sideswipe and his twin had been privy too had made itself known throughout the period of being left in the dark.

“Ravage is safe,” Soundwave intoned and there was a glimmer of an apology in his tone though it was directed more towards Optimus. “Apologies, extended for her absence.”

Megatron grimaced.

Optimus ignored the former warlord. “And Frenzy? Ravage told us something happened to him. Is he alright?”

The telepath’s visor dimmed and for a moment, everyone held their breath as if expecting him to mention the passing of the symbiont. But he lifted his helm and nodded. “Affirmative.” A large blue hand came over the plexiglass of his chassis, covering the area where the Decepticon symbol used to reside. “Frenzy, functional.”

“That’s good to hear,” Optimus said, sounding relieved. The edges of his optics crinkled as he smiled. “I’m just glad you are all safe.”

Ratchet stepped forward, a stern frown on his faceplates. “Don’t even think about interrogating them right now. They both need to recharge.”

“A representative is missing, _doctor_.” Megatron said icily, red optics flashing towards the medic that was unfazed by his tone. “We are sorely in need of the intelligence they have no doubt gleaned.”

Lips pursing, Ratchet replied with just as much acid in his tone. “Then I guess you better get out of here so I can get to work faster, _Lord High Protector_."

A brief standoff took place between the two mechs and Sideswipe tensed, unease flickering in his EM field. His position dictated that he protect Megatron from any threats which was a task he only endured because of his affiliation with Optimus but his instincts screamed at him to take the stand in favor of the medic that was single-handedly responsible for keeping him and his twin alive during the war. Sideswipe’s grip on his staff was hard enough to make his knuckles white but before he could be forced to make a drastic decision, Optimus shouldered his way between the two, placing placating hands on his bonded’s chest.

“Megatron,” he said sternly, deep baritone thrumming with authority. “Now isn’t the time."

“Oh, really?” Megatron seethed and his hands curled into fists at his side. “You’d imagine they’d be ready to talk after keeping us in the dark for so very long.” Nobody ignored the way his voice shook with what appeared to be a mixture of anger and bitterness. The grey mech’s EM field was always flaring and ready to be teeked and Sideswipe could easily tell that Megatron’s anger towards Soundwave went much deeper than a simple lapse in communications. He’d been...worried.

It was unsettling.

Sideswipe retracted his own field, and tried to focus more on making sure that the surrounding area was free of any wayward bystanders or anything else that would pose a danger to his current charges. Sunstreaker was doing the same though his attention was centered more on the unconscious form of the saboteur than anything. Make no mistake, there wasn’t any genuine concern for the unconscious mech but rather a morbid curiosity. Despite their misgivings regarding the former SpecOps commander, he was a skilled infiltrator and assassin, and whenever he finds himself in medbay, there’s a cause for intrigue.

Few things get the best of the infamous Jazz, after all.

Eventually Megatron managed to tear himself away from the situation, muttering darkly before turning on his heels and making his way out of the medbay. The red frontliner sidestepped to avoid getting in the former slagmaker’s path and then proceeded to chase after him but not before casting a final look at Jazz.

Optimus said something lowly to Soundwave, who dipped his helm, and then the convoy was hurrying to catch up with his wayward bonded. Several times a blue hand reached out to grasp a silver shoulder only to be violently shrugged off and subsequently met with a warning growl from the former warlord. But the Prime was anything but relentless.

With dexterity that was still as sharp as ever, Optimus maneuvered himself in front of Megatron and forced him to a halt. With arms crossed over his windshield and blue optics stern over the rim of his mask, he extended his EM field and demanded for Megatron to listen.

“Out of my way, _Prime_.” Megatron said brusquely, resorting to Optimus’ formal title instead of his designation.

“No.”

Megatron tensed and for a moment, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker expected for them to launch at each other right then and there. But to their surprise, Megatron proved to possess more self-restraint than anyone thought possible and only growled and clenched his hands into fists at his side. He turned his helm, upper lip curled as he refused to stare into that insistent azure gaze.

“Megatron,” there was a softness in the tone uttering the word and it made the grey mech flinch in response, as if he were unaccustomed to such sentimentality being directed at him.

“Don’t you dare give me one of your speeches,” he seethed, gracing the Prime with a stern glare of his own. “I’m not one of your little foot soldiers who _swoons_ at the sound of your voice.”

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe simultaneously grimaced but said nothing.

“It was never my intent,” Optimus replied, arms falling to his side. “But I need you to take a moment and just think.”

“ _Think?!_ ” A growl sounded, the harsh sound echoing off the walls. “What do you think I’ve been doing this whole time? Apart from dealing with your annoying optimism and that congregation of imbeciles, I’ve been doing nothing but thinking! I expected this type of slag from your fragging assassin but not from--” He cut himself off then and there, as if noticing what he was about to say and he hissed in retaliation. “Frag.”

Optimus’ field flared with understanding and he reached a hand out, palm up. “I know.”

“Do you really?” Megatron asked, voice laced with frustrated anger.

“I do,” Optimus said resolutely, taking a step forth. “Megatron, please, give me some credit. I may not have a solid understanding of the social politics that constituted your ranks...but I do know that your commanders were mechs that you cared for.”

Megatron huffed. “Care is a strong word. Try tolerate.”

Optimus’ gaze softened. “Ratchet told me they should be ready to talk in a couple orns. We just have to wait until they give us their report.”

For a moment, silence reigned in the hallway, tempered only by the distant sounds of activity further into the facility. Chances that they were being overheard were slim but it was obvious from Optimus’ demeanor that he was struggling to temper Megatron’s outburst to avoid causing a scene. Things were already getting out of control after the bombing in Uraya...the last thing they needed was bots overhearing that their leaders had sent two unofficial operatives to the city before it happened.

Megatron caught onto that quickly enough and he let out a heavy exvent, shaking his helm and straightening his posture. “Fine,” he said, optics flashing. “I can wait.” And despite the venom lacing his words, everyone present knew his words rang with truth. Megatron may be impatient and prone to irrational outbursts but he was a mech that could be reasoned with from time to time. He’d helped end the war, after all. Many bots claimed that Optimus put too much faith in the former warlord and one day that confidence will inevitably find itself misplaced. But nobot is privy to the occurrences behind closed doors, the fights and disputes that force each of their vices to rear their ugly heads to one another and bring their less than savory aspects to light.

It’s to each other that they find themselves capable of expressing all aspects of who they are without fear of betrayal and in some strange way, it makes their relationship work. As both partners in the project to restore Cybertron as well as bondmates.

Sideswipe will never understand their dynamic but he can’t help but find himself fascinated by it when he sees it at work. Slowly the red frontliner finds that his position alongside his twin as one of the personal guards of the Prime and his Lord High Protector is proving to be less mundane than he anticipated and he can’t help but revel in the odd mixture of trepidation and intrigue that constantly plagues him.

Cybertron was definitely changing and he had a front row seat to it all.

 

~~~

 

 

Something was most definitely wrong.

Optimus couldn’t stifle the thought before it crept its way into his processor, making his vitals churn and his optics narrow as he observed the two bots currently sitting opposite of the desk he and Megatron shared in their office.

Jazz was gleaming in the bright light, his familiar black and white frame finally restored with brand new racing decals adorning his chassis and arm guards. His brand-new visor was glowing a soft blue hue, which highlighted the creases of his faceplates as an easy smile loitered on his lips. He was leaning back in his chair, one arm draped over the back while the other played a faint staccato rhythm on one of his thighs.

Beside him, Soundwave was hunched over slightly and he seemed far too interested in the glass sculpture that was on the desk’s surface; his red visor was dim and he had his arms crossed over his chestplate, fingers thrumming softly on his bicep.

Neither of the bots were looking at one another but the antagonistic air between them seemed to have disappeared. But that didn’t mean that they were friendly acquaintances either; they sat on the furthest edges of their respective chairs and made no effort to even acknowledge the other’s existence. That in itself was a red flag that sent alarm bells ringing in both leader’s heads, both having been privy to the rivalry that had had the two mechs at each other’s throats for millennia. Once upon a time you couldn’t put these two in a room without a reaction being elicited from either of them, whether in the form of a sarcastic quip from the saboteur or a cool cold shoulder from the telepath.

Now they were completely ignoring each other, not even bothering to glance in the former’s direction.

Megatron and Optimus couldn’t help but share a glance of confusion before proceeding to drill their operatives on the details of their botched mission.

“Care to tell us what happened?” Optimus asked, frowning slightly as he noticed his question’s recurrence in such a short lapse of time.

Neither made a move to respond. Jazz’s monosyllabic tapping stopped and Soundwave’s visor gave a brief flicker. A strange tenseness suddenly morphed into the air, surrounding the two mechs before expanding to encompass the two leaders. Optimus suppressed a shiver and Megatron rolled his shoulders in discomfort.

Finally, Soundwave straightened up in his chair and answered, his tone somehow managing to sound colder despite the monotone. “Mission, failed. No conclusive data acquired.”

Optimus sighed, the sound heavy. “So, you weren’t able to find out who was targeting Pion? Or who sent the datapad with the threat?”

“Negative.”

Jazz’s smile faltered and he shifted in his chair, dentae gnawing on his lower lip as if struggling not to intercede. Optimus, well accustomed to his former SpecOp’s body language, immediately took notice. 

“Jazz?” He asked, an optic ridge rising in inquiry as he turned to look at the former saboteur expectantly. “You have something to add?”

From the corner of his optic, Optimus saw Soundwave turn to look at the black and white mech for the first time since they entered the room and there was a strange glimmer in that red optical band. Jazz’s gaze was set forward but it was obvious that he took heed of the telepath’s gaze because he frowned and pursed his lips, silently glancing away to regard one of the ugly paintings lining the walls as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

Soundwave returned his gaze to the two leaders and clasped his hands in his lap, acting as if nothing had happened.

Optimus couldn’t help but frown as he caught onto the brief exchange, blue optics narrowing into slits as he riveted his gaze between the two bots with newfound curiosity. Soundwave had said nothing but somehow, someway, he’d managed to shut Jazz up with just a single glare. Nobody, not even Prowl, had ever been able to keep Jazz from speaking his mind; during the war, Optimus had been forced to stifle dissension between his saboteur and some unfortunate subcommander that’d been the victim of one of his quips, finding out the hard way that Jazz was the “ask for forgiveness later” kind of mech. He spoke without caring how his reputation would suffer, not because he lacked self-awareness but because he was confident enough in his social standing to stir the waters as often as he could.

This, the silent brooding, was new and it unnerved the Prime.

Nobody had ever made Jazz shut up. Ever. So why had Soundwave been able to do so with such ease?

Optimus, in some other situation, would have been inclined to ignore the small exchange. But there was too much riding on their report and the Prime pushed aside his polite mannerisms in favor of getting actual answers out of his subordinates.

“Jazz,” he said, using that authoritative tone he’d all but exhausted during the war. “Do you concur with Soundwave’s recollection of the mission?”

The saboteur froze as all the scrutiny was thrust upon him again and with just addressing him, Optimus noticed that the tension in the room raised to a level that it was almost palatable. It made the Prime’s antennae flick and he leaned forward, hands clasping over the smooth surface of his desk in an effort to make himself more domineering. Rarely had he ever resorted to physical intimidation but these were special circumstances and Optimus’ patience was running thin.

Slowly, almost methodically, Jazz turned his attention to the bots demanding his response and his face was set into an uncomfortable grimace. His lips parted, glossa peeking out to play with the seam of his upper lip before retreating back into the warm darkness of his mouth. He sighed and nodded once.

“Yeah.” His voice was small, almost tentative, just like the gaze he sent in Soundwave’s direction before focusing on Optimus. “We didn’t find anything.”

Megatron growled, “Then why did you spend so much damn time off the slagging grid; even if it was to nurse your wounds, why the secrecy?” He too had taken heed of the odd behaviors both of their bots were exhibiting but his leniency with either was nowhere to be found.

Optimus watched in mute incredulity as Jazz flinched at Megatron’s tone, visor dimming as one would do if they shuttered their optics. The former warlord took heed of the saboteur’s reaction and his EM field spiked with genuine surprise.

A little bit of Jazz’s fire seemed to seep back into him because he smiled softly. “We took the scenic route back home. Y’know, the one with all the tourist attractions? Did you know the helex gardens are beautiful during the night cycle? Positively breathtaking.”

“Transportation, difficult to obtain.” Soundwave added lamely.

Tilting his helm to one side, Optimus asked. “Is...that all?”

“Almost.”

“Affirmative.”

Telepath and saboteur both turned to regard one another in aghast, though it was more blatant disbelief on Jazz’s behalf. Soundwave looked like he wanted to melt the former SpecOps mech with just his gaze alone.

Fortunately, Jazz’s submissiveness seemed to have eased up a little now that Optimus was guiding the conversation and he flashed Soundwave a subtle smirk before turning to face the two leaders. “There’s one little thing I might’ve forgot to mention.”

“Negative.” Soundwave interrupted, pivoting his torso to face Jazz. “Information, irrelevant.”

“What is it?” Megatron drilled, finding their lack of straightforwardness infuriating.

“There’s this mech...”

“Irrelevant.” Soundwave hissed, fists clenching against his white thighs.

“Oh, he’s completely relevant--”

“Mech’s importance to the mission, none.”

“Funny how you think that, Sounders. His name’s the last thing I heard before I became a pile of molten slag. Which reminds me, I forgot to thank you, it was a real fucking pleasure waltzing around with your handiwork. I always wanted to be a living embodiment of _abstract art_ \--”

“Jazz, _desist_.” Static laced the last syllable as the telepath barked it out and it made everyone except the saboteur frown. Instead, the black and white mech’s faceplates were twisted into an odd mixture of hurt and anger. They stared each other down for a few silent kliks but for Optimus and Megatron it felt like an eternity.

In the end, Jazz turned to look at Optimus with fiery determination flaring in his EM field. “Argyrus.” He said tersely, almost spitting the word out through clenched dental plates. “The mech’s name is Argyrus.”

Megatron froze. “Argyrus? As in self-proclaimed tycoon with one of the biggest footholds in the Energon refinement industry of the southern hemisphere?”

Jazz grinned and fired a couple of imaginary bullets at him with his finger guns. “Bullseye.” His posture faltered as he realized that his big reveal hadn’t been much of a surprise. “Wait, how do you guys know him?”

Optimus let out a scoff. “He announced to the world, on live broadcast, that he will be attending Thundercracker and Bluestreak’s _conjunx ritus_ a couple solar cycles ago. As a guest of honor.” The Prime made no effort to hide the contempt in his tone.

Jazz frowned. “What?” That hadn’t been the revelation he’d been expecting.

Megatron groaned, tipping his helm back briefly. “You wouldn’t believe the bad press we’ve been receiving because of it. We’ve had to move the event to a private closed venue because of how many threats these so called purists had been sending us and the to-be-bondeds.” His upper lip curled into a sneer. “It’s been positively dreadful.”

“Oh.” Jazz’s beam fell altogether and he sank back into his chair, visibly deflated. Soundwave’s ire seemed to have disappeared because he cast a questioning glance at the saboteur before turning to regard Megatron’s scarlet gaze.

“What exactly is Argyrus’ tie to all of this?” The former warlord asked.

Jazz crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged. “Pion told me he was a slimy slagger.” His words lacked the tenacity he’d been displaying moments ago and he hesitated on the final word, as if piecing some newfound puzzle pieces together to reveal something unknown. “And...hm. I guess that you already knew that so it really wasn’t all that important.”

“Oh.” Optimus said softly. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Jazz replied.

Soundwave said nothing.

For a moment, the sudden spike in tension between the two bots seemed to dissipate in wake of the news but neither Megatron or Optimus were so willing to ignore the fact that there was some unspoken rift lingering amid them. It wasn’t one borne out of rivalry or even out of hate, they were well known associates of both to know the signs; there was discomfort in the furtive little glances they gave each other when they believed the other wasn’t looking, tinged with a longing neither leader was eager to explore.

Something had happened between Soundwave and Jazz during their mission in Uraya when they’d gone various quartexes without communication and perhaps it wasn’t related to the mission they’d both failed to deliver upon, but it was most definitely something personal. Optimus was inclined to get Jazz alone and ask him what was wrong but something told him the saboteur would react negatively towards such an action. So, the Prime held his glossa and wallowed in the wake of disappointment.

The mission had been a failure. Uraya was now the center of unwanted media attention and Representative Pion was dead. The threat still hung over them all, lingering in the crevices of their innermost thoughts as it reminded them that the peace they had all been dutifully upholding was no longer as stable as they’d previously led themselves to imagine. Danger lurked on the outskirts, in the dark corners where crime and poverty couldn’t help but fester.

It made Optimus uneasy and he struggled to formulate a plan, a sentiment echoed by Megatron through their interlaced EM fields.

For now, all they could seem to do was wait.

“Since this mission was inconclusive, I’m afraid there isn’t much that we can do.” Optimus finally said. His optics flickered between the two bots, noticing how both somehow managed to look ashamed in an odd display of compatibility. “You’re both dismissed.”

“But, Optimus--” Jazz breathed, frustratedly trailing off when Prime fixed him with a stern look.

Soundwave’s hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach out and place a placating hand on the saboteur’s shoulder but he held his position and simply nodded.

“There’s too many optics on us at the moment,” Optimus tried to explain. “This was unofficial. If word got out that we sent two undercover operatives into the heart of the conflict, we’d have a mutiny on our hands. For now, we lay low. All of us. When an opening arises, we’ll take necessary actions. But not before.”

Megatron pursed his lips, obviously disliking the idea of inactivity. But he voiced no opposition, silently agreeing with his bonded’s words. This was all they could do.

Sighing harshly, Jazz assented. “Fine.”

“Good,” Optimus said softly. “You’re both dismissed.”

 

~~~

“Faster.”

_“Faster!”_

Jazz gritted his dentae, optics scrunching closed behind a flickering visor that was alternating between bright azure and every hue in between. His black hands gripped pale green hips with enough force to dent as he pulled them towards his own thrusting hips, a clang sounding through the dim room as metal met metal.

The smell of ozone was hot and heavily in the air, the metallic taste dancing across his glossa as he panted with his mouth open, blistering exvents escaping his parted lips.

He focused entirely on the warmth and pleasure coiling in his belly as he hunched over the bot whose valve he was currently pounding into, reveling in the feel of the slick tightness against the nodes on his spike and the occasional pressure experienced calipers exerted on the throbbing length. He was so close, he could feel it in every shaking strut in his body and would have keened if he hadn’t shut off his vocalizer a couple breems ago. The mech underneath him writhed, and he seemed to notice the saboteur teetering on the precipice of release because he locked his joints and began to swivel his hips slightly, adding a new pressure and changing the angle of each thrust just slightly.

The saboteur curled forward, a wordless “oh” of pleasant surprise escaping him as he thrust once, twice and then held himself to the hilt, shaking violently as he overloaded for the third time during the night cycle. His visor flared pure white, weak spurts from the tip of his spike coated the undulating mesh walls of the other mech’s valve with his sticky silver charge.

A heavy sigh escaped the saboteur and he pulled out, falling to his aft and leaning back to rest his weight on his hands as he struggled to control his panting. His helm tipped backwards, darkened visor staring at nothing as he greedily gulped in whatever fresh air the room had to offer. In front of him, the other mech rolled onto his back with his arms and legs splayed, a satisfied and lazy grin etched on his handsome faceplates. Warm blue optics stared at Jazz with bemusement and a soft chuckle escaped the soft green mech.

“Amazing as ever, ey, bossbot?”

Jazz grimaced, “Don’t call me that,” he said a little breathlessly. “War’s over. ‘M not your boss.”

“True. But you’ll always be the boss to me. So, get used to it.”

The saboteur managed a weak roll of his optics, optical band coming back to life with a warm blue glow. His fans were still working hard and his depressurizing spike was still hot from having been enveloped in slick warmth, but Jazz wasn’t panting anymore and he managed to shift himself into a more comfortable sitting position. Closing his interface cover, he pulled his knees towards him and rested his arms over them haphazardly, fingers flicking at the dried lubricant caking the joints.

Experienced blue optics caught the tiny little detail and dimmed in quiet preening. But he let the goading fall to the side as they relaxed, finding comfort in the soft pinging sounds of cooling metal and the hum of sated systems. The smell of charged mech still permeated the air like some cheap perfume but it didn’t bother either of them; they’d learned long ago how to become accustomed to the smell.

With a sigh, the green mech rolled himself so that he was on his belly and fixed the saboteur with a meaningful stare as he grabbed a wayward pillow to rest upon. “So,” he drawled. “Why are you here?” The innocent playfulness was gone from his tone, replaced by something more serene.

Jazz huffed. “I thought I made my intentions pretty clear.” He grinned, “I drove you to some of the best overloads of your life, Hardtop.”

Hardtop let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. “Oh, please. Fifth or sixth best at most.”

A blue visor flashed with amused pride. “Still in the top ten, either way.”

Hardtop watched as Jazz’s attention went to his thighs, tracing incoherent glyphs in the smooth white metal with the tip of his finger. His optics were hidden form his view but the green mech knew without a doubt that they were narrowed, brows furrowed to match the slight grimace he was sporting in spite of his spirited words.

“Something happened to you, didn’t it?” Hardtop went for bluntness over subtlety.

For a moment, the saboteur looked like he wanted to deny the accusations but he knew deep down that doing so would be detrimental. Hardtop was a mech who’d survived the fall of the old society by reading mechs; as a buymecha, the green mech had earned a meager living and when an unfortunate run in with a Decepticon left him beaten and on the brink of death, he’d cultivated a set of skills that allowed him to analyze and focus on every single little tic his clients exhibited during their sessions. More than once such skills saved his life and when he drafted himself into the Autobots, the same assets were used in Special Operations at the behest of black and white saboteur.

Lying to him wouldn’t get Jazz killed in this particular situation but it would make for some unpleasantly sweet interrogation and the saboteur wasn’t too keen on disrupting the lazy afterglow that overload had brought him. So, he assented and nodded.

“Guess you could call it that.”

Hardtop hummed. “I figured. You shut off your vocalizer after you first overload; that’s something you don’t normally do. You’re as loud as they come.”

Jazz shrugged. “I can’t really tell you any details. But I guess I can give you the juicy emotional baggage you’ve always been a sucker for.”

“Lay it on me.”

Jazz cleared his throat. “Well, somebody I know and respect gave me a job. It was an easy job, nothing I’m not used to but it kinda forced me to work with somebot I really don’t like.”

Hardtop titled his helm to one side. “Oh?”

“Yeah. I don’t...hate him, per say. But I guess it’s got something to do with the fact that he’s a Decepticon. All I ever knew about him was all the bad that he did and I guess that over the years, I sorta grew attached to this evil persona I created in my mind, cause it’s the only one I’ve seen across the battlefield for millennia.” He paused, “But then I stopped to think, hey, I’ve killed bots too. Tortured them and grinned as their Spark guttered and I didn’t mind the sweetness when a stray drop of their splattered Energon fell into my mouth. But I was an Autobot, so that makes everything alright. Morally, at least.”

Hardtop nodded, optics bright and focused as he picked up on every single word and mulled it over in his mind. A small part of him had a good idea which Decpeticon he was referring to but he kept his mouth shut. The less he prodded for details, the more Jazz would be willing to unload. The saboteur had been like that ever since the green mech had known him, divulging experiences in hypotheticals and vague recollections, as if trying to separate himself from them.

It wasn’t healthy. But it was Jazz.

“And did this Decepticon do something to change your mind about him?”

Something akin to surprise flashed across Jazz’s face but he quickly hid it behind an air of indignation. “What didn’t he do?” He said haughtily.  “He was nothing but a pain in the aft for the entire job. Telling me what to do, hovering like some overprotective slagger and scolding, yeah _scolding_ , me when I did something wrong. But he was so self-righteous about it all and for a moment, I found myself letting him...” He trailed off with an exasperated sigh, throwing his hands in the air before letting them rest in their original position.

Hardtop couldn’t stifle the smile parting his faceplates. “Sounds like a real ‘Con.”

“The absolute worst.” Jazz hissed.

Rolling his optics, Hardtop shifted his upper body to rest on his elbows, legs rising at the knee to kick lazily through the air. “It sounds to me like you’re experiencing some déjà vu there, bossbot. Remember how your first meeting with Prowl went? You told me you wanted to drive his helm through the monitor screen.”

Pain registered in Jazz’s EM field at the mention of the Praxian and Hardtop couldn’t help but teek it. He sighed heavily, and his was his own turn to be exasperated. “Primus, don’t tell me you still haven’t worked that stuff out?”

“Leave it alone,” Jazz said darkly. “It doesn’t concern you.”

“Hey, you’re the one who came to see me, remember?”

“I came to frag you,” Jazz said simply. “I don’t remember anything at this brothel’s entrance telling me I had to talk to you.”

Unspoken words lingered in that air and Hardtop’s optics narrowed as he quickly caught onto them. A smarter bot would’ve been hurt by the saboteur’s implications but he’d built a tough outer skin throughout his life. He held his friends at just enough of a distance that any betrayal of trust wouldn’t hurt him emotionally and Jazz, for all his mentoring and guidance, was nothing more than an acquaintance.

But Hardtop was a former SpecOps agent with a Spark and not even he was cruel enough to turn away a bot who was in such obvious need of a listening audial. Jazz could’ve gone to any of his former agents, especially friends like Mirage and Bumblebee, but he chose Hardtop. He wanted to be listened to but he also didn’t want any of the judgment that came when divulging baggage to personal friends. Hardtop was just the right mixture of friend and stranger for this to work.

“I think,” Hardtop said softly, breaking through the tense silence that had surrounded them. “That perhaps you should think this over a little more. Without the high of overload or enex or any of those other things you use to ‘clear your mind’. Just you and a clear processor. Maybe over a nice cube of fresh Energon.”

Jazz stared at him incredulously. “What’s there to think about?”

Hardtop shrugged. “You’ve interacted with many Decepticons after the war, haven’t you? But you never had the desire to come and complain about any of them, at least nothing as deep as this. Maybe there’s more to this Decepticon than you think...maybe, just maybe, you don’t hate him as much as you think.”

Hardtop watched closely as Jazz mulled the words over, visor dimming. Hardtop expanded his field to teek the saboteur’s and he frowned slightly as he detected the heavy cloying of shame lingering on the outskirts of Jazz’s. Immediately, the saboteur reigned his in and abruptly stood up.

“I have to go,” he said, sounding distracted. He pawed around the assortment of blankets and pillows for something to clean himself with. Taking pity, Hardtop subspaced a clean rag and threw it towards him. Jazz caught it seamlessly, fluidly proceeding to wipe the telltale signs of interfacing from his plating. The lubricant and transfluid came right off though the green paint transfers were a little harder to take off; a good solvent was needed, maybe a buffer, but those were amenities that Jazz wasn’t willing to pay extra for.

Hardtop rose to his feet as well, accepting the rag back from Jazz and giving himself a haphazard wipe down. When he was done, he threw the soiled textile on the ground and reached out to grasp Jazz’s wrist, pleased that the saboteur did nothing else but freeze and cast him a warning look over his shoulder.

“Promise me something?”

Jazz pursed his lips. “Depends what it is.”

Hardtop smiled tentatively and let go of the saboteur’s hand. “Don’t do something stupid.”

The saboteur hummed softly. “Can’t promise you that,” he said, a light teasing replacing the ire he’d been exhibiting not too long ago. It was all Hardtop was going to get for the time being and the green mech forced himself to play along, biting his glossa of the things he truly wanted to say. But those words of advice were best saved for actual friends of the saboteur and Hardtop could only hope they’d get the sense of push the black and white mech towards the recovery and assistance he needed.

So, with that same smile and a dip of his helm, Hardtop watched the former SpecOps commander go, a fire was churning in his belly and it was definitely not the remnants of his overloads.

 

~~~

 

Jazz walked through the darkened streets of Iacon with a limp in his gait and an uncharacteristic dimness to his visor. His arms swung lazily at his side and his back was hunched as he stared at his pedes with something akin to trepidation.

He noticed a tiny spot of lubricant on the white top of his toe and couldn’t help but scoff at it. He stopped and bent over to wipe it with the pad of his thumb, huffing in satisfaction when it finally came away. A couple of mechs stared at him oddly from further down the street and the saboteur shrugged, too tired to really let loose with one of trademarked wisecracks.

All focus was on keeping his pedes moving, one after the other, until the familiar surroundings of his neighborhoods replaced the dreary outskirts of the city state he now called home. Iacon was always busy at night, with bustling streets, horrible traffic and more than a couple slag eating pedestrians. It was one of the activity hubs of Cybertron, never quiet but the saboteur couldn’t help but feel a little dissociated as he walked through it all.

A breath of relief escaped him as he walked up the stairs of his compartment complex, observing the bright windows of his neighbors and catching wisps of conversations here and there. When he made it to his floor, he halted, catching sight of a darkened figure standing right in front of his door.

Weapons whirred to life and before he could even blink, he was holding a small pistol at the figure, visor flashing dangerously.

“Whoa!” A familiar voice yelped, and immediately the figure raised two short arms in the air in surrender.

Jazz bit his glossa to stifle the growl working its way up his intake. “Rumble?” As he lowered his gun and stepped closer, he could see the faint blue hue of the symbiont in the faulty lighting and annoyance crept into his EM field.

“What are you doing here?”

Rumble’s visor flashed online, the scarlet hue making a strange fluttering sprout in Jazz’s chest. He ignored it and focused on being annoyed.

“The boss doesn’t know I’m here,” he said softly, as if that in itself would curb the saboteur’s dislike. It really didn’t and Jazz knew better than to believe anything that came out of the blue heathen’s mouth. A strong penchant for lying, this one most definitely had.

“I really don’t care why you’re here,” Jazz said, crossing his arms over his chassis. “I just want you to leave.”

Rumble’s lips twisted to one side and for a moment, his helm tilted as he took in the appearance of the black and white saboteur, red optic band lighting up slightly when it caught sight of something marring the usual white of one of Jazz’s thighs. A quick zoom later and his lips pressed together into a thin fine line as he discerned what it was.

“Where were you?” The symbiont demanded, glancing up at the saboteur’s face.

Jazz shrugged, “What are you doing, putting tabs on me now? Move.” With a not so gentle nudge, he forced Rumble to step away from his door and the saboteur subspaced his key, plugging it into the matrixpad until it finally accepted and let him inside the apartment.

Rumble followed him in, standing in the doorway and preventing the door from shutting. Jazz could tell that the symbiont was going to bother him all night unless he at least listened to whatever it was he had to say. Another option was to kick him out the door but something told him his host mech would be terribly unappreciative of the gesture and was the last person Jazz wanted to see.

So, he pivoted on his heel and turned to regard the wayward symbiont with a demanding glower. “You have sixty astroseconds,” Jazz said carefully. “Speak.”

Rumble stared at him with his characteristic grimace, silent for a couple moments before he sighed and relented. “I’m here to tell you what you already know. What happened in Uraya wasn’t anybody’s fault...and it definitely wasn’t a mistake. You can’t keep avoiding each other, not now.” He paused, lips parting as he struggled to condense the speech he’d prepared for this very moment. “And, uh...he might not appreciate me doing this but he hangs out a lot at this tiny little bar in Tarn called Wycom’s. By that old shut-down Energon refinery. He’s mostly there during the night cycle but on occasions he does like to go there for his morning Energon. And—“

“Time’s up,” Jazz interrupted, raising a hand and pointing out the door. “Now get the frag out.”

Rumble growled, “That wasn’t even forty astroseconds!”

“My chronometer says it was, short stuff. Now scram. Before you make me do something I’ll regret.”

Frenzy threw his hands up in exasperation, but allowed Jazz to heard him back. “Gah! I knew it! You like Frenzy better than me! I should’ve let that little slagger come instead of me. But no! I had to go out and open my big fat--” The door shut in his face, leaving the saboteur with only a muffled version of the tiny blue mech’s rant. It carried on for a couple more kliks, punctuated by a few kicks to his closed door before the sound of retreating footsteps finally left the saboteur in merciful silence.

He immediately felt relieved.

Finally, some peace and quiet. He proceeded to make his way to his washracks, setting the solvent to its hottest level and taking out a roughly bristled brush to finally begin cleaning his dirty frame. He went for the green paint transfers first, scrubbing and scrubbing until the offending hue disappeared and he was left only with his original colors. Some heavy burden he didn’t even know he’d been holding lifted from his shoulders and he sighed, enjoying the way the vapor and condensation dipped into his seams and attacked the tiny flecks of foreign material he was unable to reach. Before long, the hot solvent ran out and the saboteur promptly shut the nozzle off, stepping under the drying unit and letting the gust of pressured air get rid of all the moisture from his frame.

Somewhat clean, the saboteur exited the washracks and made his way to his kitchenette, prepping himself a small cube of Energon in response to a small red warning that’d popped up on his HUD. It tasted bland but the strength that flowed into his tired frame was reward enough for drinking the pale blue liquid. He allowed his optics to rove over the expanse of his small apartment, taking in the minimalist furniture and bare walls of his kitchen and living room. It looked exactly like it had in the catalogue, bare and empty, with only Jazz’s unused holobass resting without a stand in the dark corner.

An odd sense of nostalgia coursed through the mech as he let his attention linger on the forgotten instrument and almost subconsciously, his fingers thrummed along to a long-engrained rhythm against the cool glass of the cube in his hand.

One, two, three. One, two, three...

The glass abruptly shattered in his hand and the saboteur frowned, turning to observe how the long refractive shards embedded themselves in the soft sensor rich alloy of his palms and fingers. It hurt like the Pit but he couldn’t find it in himself to whimper; he’d grown accustomed to pain a long time ago. With methodical precision, he moved to his sink and began to pick the pieces out, dropping the blue tinted shards into the silver alcove and then proceeding to wash his injured derma. His good hand reached for a somewhat clean cloth and wrapped it around the injury.

The pain dampened to a small throbbing, probably a sign that the mech should go see a medic. But Jazz was tired and Hardtop’s words didn’t seem too eager to leave his processor, bouncing around like an errant beehive in his mind. Leaving the mess behind, he made his way to his chambers and all but fell into his berth, curling into a fetal position with his injured hand cradled against his chest.

As he hovered on the edge of a forced recharge, Rumble’s words echoed softly in his mind. That familiar flutter in his chest returned, warm and comforting, and for the first time since Uraya, the saboteur allowed himself to bask in it. No shame, no regret.

Just...contentment.


	8. Celebrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Bluestreak and Thundercracker's bonding brings a sliver of hope into several bot's lives, it also manages to bring unwarranted dissension. An unfamiliar face is revealed, revelations are made and bonds are tested.

_“And your laugh_

_was the beginning_

_of the end._

_you captured my heart_

_and I was_

_doomed...”_

 

—R.M. Drake

 

 

On the surface, Cybertron was thriving.

Alien species not native to the planet, even those who despised Cybertronians, would be inclined to tell you that the restoration of the once dead world was a spectacle to behold. Within a couple hundred vorns, the ashy grey remains slowly disappeared, gleaming spires and structures of gold and silver alloy rising from the ashes of a former world the war struggled to erase. Life returned to the core, lighting up the streets and formerly vacant canals with the beautiful blue hue of life and allowing the dead star to once again shine against the navy-blue expanse of the universe.

Its society was built a little slower but with a steel certainty and the various survivors of the dispersed cultures unearthed traditions that they had once feared would be lost to the ravages of war and time. Infrastructures were set in place and before long, the arts began their long journey of revival and survival was turned into living.

One of the oldest traditions known throughout Cybertronian history was that of the _conjunx ritus,_ a sacred ceremony where two Sparks promised themselves to one another in the mortal world with the belief that the bond would transcend into the Afterspark so they could be together for as long as their individual fires lasted.

Few bots underwent an official ritual, even before the war. The rigid caste systems often limited lovers to their own societal circles, where partnerships were borne out of necessity or financial bargains rather than love. Starcrossed lovers would utter oaths in secret in some hidden corner of the world, their words being the only thing binding them to one another while their Sparks longed for an ethereal connection that was simply not meant to be.

Many bots fought the war for this particular reason; to be able to love and hate what they chose without some higher up dictating whether it was right or wrong. Materialistic things were great motivators, but this was ultimately what drove the majority into eons of death and strife.

Bluestreak and Thundercracker were bots who weren’t avid believers in the aims of their respective causes. Bluestreak had been a victim of the destruction of his city, sucked into a war he did not believe in and forced to fight for the right to say ‘enough.’ Thundercracker was an idealist who allowed the colorful words of bots with the conviction and ambition that he lacked to push him towards action. He killed because he believed the words of others but slowly, he came to realize that his ideologies had no place in a war. And the simple goal of survival was the only thing that got him through the conflict.

Some would say fate was what drove them to one another but they smile and silently agree that it was nothing more than fortunate circumstances.

They each hailed from cities with rich history, with rigid beliefs that had once dictated their lives and shaped their vision of the world around them. Vos had made Thundercracker believe that only those with the power of flight were capable of being cherished. That trines and extended familial units were all that mattered and the rest of the world be damned. Praxus was different in the sense that it was less functionist but in a city where order and focus were prized above all other traits, love rarely had any place in unions formed.

Perhaps the loss of both cities had been tragedies, immeasurable and painful, but both of them agreed that such events had been necessary. Necessary for twisted views to be righted and for connections to be made.

For love to finally find its place where it belonged. Among mechs who chose to be together out of will and love, rather than necessity.

It was with this belief that they stood before Optimus Prime on the altar of a newly rebuilt cathedral, doorwings and wings painted with the glyphs of their adoration and dedication to one another in gleaming silver and gold and smiles bright enough to make even the hottest star falter. Their frames were adorned with expensive jewels, odes to the olden ways, shining as brilliantly as their waxed alloy.

The walls of the cathedral were etched with the history of their planet, painted and engraved by the best artisans and architects, and small stained-glass windows let in just enough light to give the inside space a soft almost orange glow. All assembled audience members watched from steel sculpted pews, some smiling, others sobbing while a select few stared in awe. A myriad of different colored optics watched as Optimus Prime, adorned with a priest’s cloth over one shoulder, spoke ancient words almost never believed they’d hear again.

Hands clasped between them, the two lovers bowed their heads as the Prime finished his sermon and proceeded to turn to face one another to begin the last leg of the ceremony.

The swearing of the oaths.

They each cast looks at their designated witnesses, soft smiles on their faces.

Prowl and Jazz, with blue glyphs on their faces, stood for Bluestreak as both had taken it upon themselves to mentor and guide him when the young mech had been retrieved from the rubble. They humbled themselves saying anybot would have done it but Bluestreak had simply said he was glad it had been them.

Jazz’s smile was small but there was no denying the emotion surrounding the black and white mech. Before him stood a bot that’d received a greater portion of Jazz’s adoration and respect and seeing the proud Praxian all but beaming on the stand did something funny to Jazz’s insides. His Spark felt like it would explode.

Similar sentiments could be said for Prowl, whose normally taciturn demeanor was forsaken as he grinned and all but bursted with pride under the former sharpshooter’s gaze. Nobot could be prouder than the Enforcer.

On Thundercracker’s side were two bots few people had imagined taking the position: Starscream and Soundwave.

The red and blue Seeker wore his customary scowl as he stood proud and erect on the steps to the side, a gleaming purple cape hanging from his shoulders. He bore the blue marks that Jazz and Prowl did with pride, face turned upwards to showcase the way the blue paint shone on his smooth derma. Some would say he was unhappy of being there, given that he was a witness a union that desecrated everything his kind had stoutly believed in. But the observant bots would see that he’d occasionally become distracted and the scowl would assuage into something softer, a smile almost playing upon his lips. But then he’d shake himself back to reality and cast anyone looking a haughty glare before focusing on the ceremony once again.

Soundwave was an enigma; one of the few friends that Thundercracker had made in the Decepticon ranks, the former communications officer stood formally just a little way to Starscream’s side, red visor bright as he observed the unification with an unreadable air. He was not unhappy to be there but it was obvious from his posture that he was not as familiar as the other witnesses were. Regardless, he still bore the blue paint without complaint.

With whispered thanks to each, the two devotees turned to one another with a softness they only reserved for each other and slowly began to murmur their vows. Thundercracker went first and several bots smiled a bit wider when they noticed that the normally stoic mech’s voice was shaking slightly. He began by reciting a brief poem in Vosian, something that made Starscream’s optics widen slightly and Bluestreak’s lips part in brief awe. The words carried through the air like a gentle breeze, caressing audials and warming the sparks of the few who truly understood. He concluded with short words that thanked the sharpshooter for the usual: his patience, kindness and understanding above all else.

“You’re the other half of my Spark,” Thundercracker said, voice sure and true. “It may have taken a couple thousand millennia but I would gladly endure them again for the sake of being able to be by your side. It is to you, Bluestreak of Praxus, that I pledge my Spark, my loyalty and my utmost love for the future we are to build.”

Bluestreak’s doorwings fluttered happily and for a moment, spectators worried he’d flap away like one of those organic birds. But his pedes remained on the ground and he bit his lower lip as he accepted TC’s words and waited for his turn to speak.

Praxian was a language that was extinct, so ancient that it’d been spoken only by priests who’d either perished or disappeared with the fall of the great city. So far, no survivors of the language had been found again and the average Praxian only knew a couple words. Bluestreak’s knowledge of such a linguistic marvel was less and sparse but he knew a couple important ones.

“Partner, companion.” Bluestreak said, static lacing each glyph. “It is to you I pledge my dedication and love, to live for as long as Primus wills us in this life and beyond. I look forward to the life we will build and to the legacy we will leave. It is to you, Thundercracker of Vos, that I dedicate my Spark to. You and only you.”

Thundercracker’s lips widened into a grin and somewhere a voice let out a sigh. Optimus waited a few kliks before procuring a datapad and presenting it to the two bots, his optics crinkling as a smile formed behind his faceplate. “I have here the legal binding document, that which officiates this union not only in the optics of Primus but for the government we wish to sustain. It requires both of your signatures to fully legalize your bond. Thundercracker,” he turned to the blue Seeker, optics warm as he held it towards him first.

Thundercracker didn’t hesitate to press the pad of his forefinger to the screen and gracing it with his official signature.

“Bluestreak.” Optimus said and no one missed the warmth that crept into that deep baritone, remnants of the eons spent as commander and respected subordinate.

The Praxian nearly fell over himself following his mate’s example, giddy with joy when he finished inscribing. Without missing a beat, he reached back to hold onto Thundercracker’s hands and his entire frame buzzed with excitement.

“It is done,” Optimus said and stepped back, arms spreading to direct attention to the two mechs before him. “Everyone, I invite you to behold Thundercracker of Vos and Bluestreak of Praxus, official Conjunx and bonded mates and urge you congratulate to them on this momentous occasion. Til all are one.”

“Til all are one!” Cheers erupted as Bluestreak reached up to pull Thundercracker to his level, pressing his lips against the flier’s in a public display of affection that had several bots laughing at Thundercracker’s expense. But despite the natural stoicism of the blue Seeker, he leant into the kiss without complaint, hands reaching up to cup his Conjunx’s helm in his dark grey servos.

When they parted, Thundercracker was smiling knowingly and Bluestreak looked slightly dazed.

Jazz clapped his hands and grinned when they parted, catching Bluestreak’s optic and waving when the former sharpshooter cupped a hand around his mouth and yelled, “Told ya I’d be the first!”

“Always and forever, Blue.” Jazz yelled back, watching as TC guided his smaller mate through the mass of mechs and femmes crowding around them to offer congratulations. Smokescreen was one of the first, ignoring formality and wrapping his fellow Praxian into a hug that had Blue squeaking in surprise. Starscream paused beside Thundercracker, murmuring something lowly that elicited a chuckle from the blue flier before rejoining his tall white paneled mate loitering in the back. Skyfire smiled at Starscream who merely huffed in response but allowed the shuttle to give him an affectionate peck on the crown of his helm.

A soft tap on Jazz’s shoulder snapped him out of his reverie and he turned to regard the familiar blue optics of Prowl. Immediately, the saboteur knew he had no escape. Ever since he’d made it to the ceremony, he knew this was a discussion he wouldn’t be able to avoid.

“Prowl,” Jazz said, dipping his helm in greeting.

The former tactician tilted his helm to one side as his doorwings rose in apprehension. “Since when were we about formalities, Jazz?”

The saboteur shrugged, “Dunno.” He said honestly, hating how an awkward air slowly began to creep around them. It wasn’t from a lack of compatibility; they’d held a repertoire that was unmatched, with personalities that complimented one another and an eagerness that translated into the berth. But it was impossible to ignore the prickle along his neck, a reaction caused by the fierce glares two peculiar red and yellow mechs were aiming at him from among the crowd.

Sideswipe was smiling dangerously, and when he caught Jazz’s optics, he tilted his helm to one side as if silently daring the saboteur to make a move.

Sunstreaker was a black cloud of dissension looming on the horizon.

“Ignore them,” Prowl said softly and Jazz started at hearing the amusement in his tone. “They’re being overprotective.”

Jazz ducked his helm in shame. “They have every reason to be,” he replied.

Prowl was silent for a moment, watching the congratulating crowd with joy in his field but then he turned his attention back to the saboteur. “Perhaps. But they don’t understand our dynamic. At least not completely.” He paused. “Our courtship may be over, Jazz but you’re my best friend. And that’s never going to change. The mistakes you make don’t define you and I would consider myself a terrible friend if I turned my back on you.”

The saboteur turned to look at him, blue visor bright. “Then you’re an idiot.”

“Perhaps,” Prowl said, smiling softly. “But an idiot by choice.” A familiar white hand reached out to clasp an ebony one, holding it with a strength and warmth that would have once made the blue visored mech swoon. But the contact only offered quiet support and for the first time in a long while, Jazz leaned into it and allowed the recognizable EM field to wrap around him like a warm blanket without any of the usual baggage accompanying him.

He wasn’t over Prowl and he probably never would be but Jazz stood by his decisions. And this one, while the most difficult, was the only one he held no regret over. Prowl deserved better, a solidarity that Sideswipe and Sunstreaker could provide and Jazz could not.

One day the Praxian would want an official bonding, a stable abode to call theirs, and without a doubt, bitlets running around with that familiar red chevron on their tiny heads and those expressive little doorwings of his flapping excitedly on small backs. Jazz would never be sure if he’d want that and he’d loathe for Prowl to have ended up in the position of choosing between the life he wanted and a life with Jazz.

A sharp pain went through the saboteur’s spark and he clenched his fingers around Prowl’s for a brief second, taking advantage of his quiet strength, his serenity and once the pain subsided, he quietly let go.

“Thanks,” he breathed, low enough for the black and white Praxian to hear.

Prowl’s smile was nothing short of dazzling. “Any time.” He glanced around, catching sight of the now retreating crowd. “We should get to the reception hall. I hear they have quite the assortment of rust sticks.”

The saboteur couldn’t help but chuckle. “Right. Almost forgot what a sucker you are for those.”

“As much as you love those sour Energon goodies.”

“Touché.”

Noticing the pair of frontliners heading their way, Prowl briefly touched Jazz’s arm with the tip of his fingers in goodbye before heading over to intercept them. Jazz easily noticed the way the Twins put the Praxian between them, arms rubbing against each other while Sunstreaker cast a warning glance over his shoulder at the saboteur. Prowl murmured something in his audial that made him start and he promptly turned his helm away.

With a roll of his optics, Jazz stepped down the stairs and followed the string of stragglers out of the cathedral, transforming and taking the brief driver a couple blocks over to the small elegant venue the two Conjunxes had rented for the occasion. Outside, it didn’t look like much but once you stepped inside, the atmosphere made a complete 180; tables were dispersed around the room, forming the perimeter of a small circular dance floor that was lit by a finely sculpted chandelier that glittered with various colored crystals. Along the edges were tables lined with an array of fine dining and assorted treats, some glowing colorful hues, others smelling of exotic ingredients but all looking as inviting as the warm lighting encompassing it all. At the forefront was a large table where Thundercracker and Bluestreak were seated, hands clasped on the table surface and smiling as they talked with the occasional bot that approached them or whispered between them during rare moments of peace.

The saboteur stood in front of the array of confectionaries, finding the different colored squares oddly enticing. He usually wasn’t a fan of sweets but those radium gummies were looking positively scrumptious. He grabbed one of the small silver plates and began piling on the things that interested him, ignoring the looks strangers gave and grinning when an acquaintance egged him on.

Optimus and Megatron were the only ones who engaged with him in discourse, the former smiling and the later looking like he was moments from stasis, and they offered easy conversation as they selected their own food. Mirage took their place once they left and Jazz grinned at seeing his former SpecOps agent looking bright and happy. He was in the company of Onslaught, who offered nothing more than curt politeness before leading the former infiltrator away with whispered words and a hand on his bicep.

The occasional conversations came and went but none stuck around with the saboteur who thought nothing of it.

Before long, he found himself balancing a plate with an array of salty and sweet treats and he retreated to a small table in the back to munch on the delicacies.

A rust stick made its way his mouth first, and the usually distasteful assault of saltiness made the saboteur groan in appreciation. He’d never remembered rust sticks being this fragging good. Before long, the thin silver sticks were gone and the saboteur was left picking up the stray flecks of rust that’d fallen off on the plate.

He eyed the radium gummies and took one between his thumb and forefinger, eyeing it carefully and giving it an experimental squeeze before popping it into his mouth. He rolled it around with his glossa for a few kliks before biting down and he grinned when he felt the familiar explosion of a gooey warm center. It tasted fragging amazing and he had no qualms in finishing off the rest of his plate.

A small part of him knew that going back for seconds was probably not the politest thing, especially since he wasn’t engaging in the conversation making a steady buzz sound in the air. But he couldn’t seem to resist—

The sound of a door slamming open sent a hush over the assembled bots and all optics turned to regard the figure responsible for the commotion.

The large door was being held open by a what looked to be a pair of couriers, their plating a simple silver hue and helms ducked as they stood to the side. The bright light spilling inside was being partially blocked by what looked to be a Seeker but when said figure stepped inside and the entrance shut behind him, it was apparent to everyone that he was anything but.

It was a grounder, colored a brilliant neon green, sleek and elegant with doorwings that weren’t of Praxian origin and served more as an aesthetic factor. Scarlet optics were narrowed over a fine noseplate and a haughty grin played upon smooth looking lips. He carried himself with an air that demanded attention and had it not been for the bright blue colors she carried, the femme on his arm would have gone unnoticed. But Jazz took heed of her and the light of his visor narrowed into a thin band across the blue glass.

She was tall for her frametype, coming up to the new arrival’s shoulder, and she had a sleek but squared off frame that tampered off into a thin waist, lithe legs guiding her forward with long easy strides. The saboteur couldn’t help but find her frame familiar, thought the green visor and pursed painted lips were absolutely foreign.

“Greetings!” The green mech bellowed, voice rich and oily and tinged with an accent that screamed former nobility. “I apologize for my tardiness but business arrangements underwent last minute modifications and I was unfortunately delayed. But never fear, I have arrived in time to pay my respects to the newly bonded Conjunxes.”

Someone let out an audible scoff and scarlet optics flashed as they zeroed in on the offender, a rather unamused looking Vortex.

“Copter.” The new arrival said in a honeyed voice.

“Vortex,” the rotary deadpanned. “And keep it down, will ya? Some of us are trying to have meaningful conversations.”

A rumble of amusement passed through the crowd and some bots even went back to what they had been doing. But several kept their attention on the mech and femme, Optimus and Jazz chief among them. The former knew exactly who this was and his bonded was failing to hide the exasperation on his faceplates.

Jazz grimaced.

“Argyrus,” Thundercracker’s deep bass sounded over the commotion and he was on his pedes, hands clenched loosely at his side. Bluestreak riveted his gaze between the two, curiosity lighting up his optics every time they landed on the newly arrived tycoon.

“Thundercracker of Vos,” Argyrus said, awe seeping into his voice as he stepped through the crowd to stand before the blue flier. The tycoon was no small mech and he easily reached three quarters of the Seeker’s height, aided by the body modifications that he flaunted shamelessly. The femme followed him like a shadow, her attention focused solely on that of her boisterous companion’s. “Please, let me just say it is an honor to be in attendance of such a sacred ceremony. A true homage to the olden ways.” His optics flickered to Bluestreak, something unreadable passing through them before he blinked and smiled.

“You must be Bluestreak.”

The Praxian nodded, “Yes.”

Argyrus regarded him with a quick sweep of his optics and then extended a hand, displaying lithe fingers that ended with sharp tips that curled slightly into claws. Bluestreak glanced up at his bonded briefly before reaching out to accept the gesture, grimacing slightly when clawed fingers wrapped around his to give a few tense shakes that spoke of anything but genuine approval.

“Positively adorable,” Argyrus said flippantly, turning his attention back to Thundercracker. Optics roved over those expansive blue wings, taking in the decorations and glyphs and the fine shape each appendage bore. It made the small sharpshooter slightly uncomfortable but he forced a smile on his faceplates.

To the side, Jazz noticed Starscream seething as he regarded the new arrival and it seemed that Skyfire’s strong grip on his shoulder was the only thing keeping the red and blue Seeker from launching himself at the obvious fanatic standing before his former trinemate.

For the most part, activity had resumed in the venue with only nosy bystanders regarding the self-invited guests. But Jazz wasn’t focused on them; all of his attention was on the mech whose name had disrupted his recharge since he’d heard it all those orns ago. The mech was everything he imagined; flamboyant, ridiculously wealthy and a complete and total sleezebag. Finding himself mimicking Pion’s look of distaste, the saboteur was suddenly reminded of everything that had occurred recently and the quiet bubble of happiness the celebration had created found itself bursting without warning.

He waited until Thundercracker managed to convince the tycoon to try out the assorted treats, all but guiding him in person to the bar adjacent to it. The barista immediately began to concot something for the mech and his companion, faceplates hurried as Argyrus murmured something unintelligible to him.

With the grace that earned him his reputation years ago, Jazz made his way over to the bar, making sure to keep a nonchalant air around him and a relaxed posture when he took a seat at the far end of the table.

A glowing red and orange swirled drink was placed in front of each bot, who each observed it and took a tentative sip that ended with unamused huffs. The barista looked crestfallen at the rejection but he continued with his work, pulling away to attend to the other mechs once Argyrus let him go until he eventually made it over to Jazz.

“What’ll it be?”

Jazz offered him a sympathetic smile. “Enex.” Was the simple reply.

The sound of clinking cubes and liquid pouring sounded in the background as Jazz eyed the tycoon from the corner of his optic and before long, a glowing cube of his favorite alcoholic imbibe was procured.

“Thanks,” the saboteur said, cupping a hand around the cool glass and nestling it closer towards him. Argyrus was talking lowly to his companion, who seemed to be only mildly listening as she drank her drink. Those blue painted lips moved slightly over the rim of the glass when she responded but for all of Jazz’s sensitive hearing, he couldn’t pick up what they were saying. He chalked it up to the noise but this wasn’t exactly the first time he’d been in a situation like this and failed at something so simple.

He narrowed his optics and delved into his subsystems, trying to identify if there was an issue with his audials. A quick scan revealed that everything was working at optimal condition with the normal .002 parameter of error excluded. This caused the saboteur to frown slightly; that wasn’t right—

“What’s a pretty little thing like you doing drinking all by yourself?”

Jazz carefully held himself still despite having been caught completely by surprise. His Spark nearly leapt out of his chestplate but he kept a straight face, slowly morphing his expression into a look of playful astonishment as he glanced at the owner of the voice over the cusp of his shoulder.

“Who’s asking?” He asked, intentionally playing dumb. This wasn’t on the list of actions he wanted to pursue but Jazz was nothing if not opportunistic.

Argyrus’ grin deepened into something bordering on lecherous. Jazz fought the shiver creeping up his spine when the green mech made no effort to hide the way he admired the saboteur’s frame. “Now, now. Don’t be coy.”

“Coy? Me?” Jazz purred, pivoting in his chair so that his body was turned towards the mech. He crossed a leg over the other and let one hand rest over his cube, the other coming down to rest on his knee and rub gentle circles into the armor. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do.” Argyrus said, leaning in slowly. He eyed Jazz’s untouched drink then slowly turned his helm to face directly into Jazz’s visor; he smelled of imported wax and Visco, a combination Jazz normally would find appealing but when the scents reached his olfactory senses, a rolling wave of nausea swept through him and it took everything he had to resist the urge to gag. For a couple long tense moments, Jazz watches as Argyrus leans forward until his lips are at his audial and it’s easy to hear the leer in his voice.

“I saw you follow me over here. You thought I wouldn’t notice?”

Jazz froze, internally cursing. Dammit. What the slag was wrong with him?

Argyrus abruptly leaned back, shaking his helm. “I’m not mad,” he said, ghosting the tips of his fingers over the ones Jazz had clenched on his knee. “In fact, I’m flattered...” The telltale pricks of claws suddenly invaded Jazz’s sensory net and he fought to hide a wince as Argyrus’ fingers touched the alloy of his thigh, following a seam with the ease of an experienced lover.

Immediately, the saboteur shifted his legs, changing position and forcing Argyrus to stop his unwelcome ministrations. The green mech froze at the obvious rejection and tilted his helm to one side, scarlet optics narrowed. “Too public for you?” The faux warmth was still there but it teetered on the edge of something more dangerous.

“N-not at all.” Something was wrong; alarm bells were ringing in Jazz’s head and the confidence he normally exuded in situations like these was inconveniently absent. A strange inexplicable urge to wrap his arms around himself and turn away, a line of code that Jazz was quick to tackle down and delete before it sprouted into an automatic command. He gave himself a mental kick in the shin; this was the bot that Representative Pion had spoken of moments before he died. This was the mech who stirred dissension with the mere mention of his name. Jazz had spent most of his time in Uraya mulling over the designation, depending on vids and news from the DataNet that offered nothing more than tabloid headlines for information.

He was important, his gut told him.

And Jazz needed to find out _why_.

Smiling in spite of his paroxysm of unease, the saboteur continued to play along with the mech’s little games. Argyrus may believe he had the upper hand but Jazz had made a living out of playing mechs like him.

“What would you say if I told you I wanted to bend you over this table and frag you right here and now?” Argyrus’ oily voice spoke the crude words seamlessly, as if he were doing nothing more than mentioning the color of the sky or predicting the weather. There was lust in his EM field but overriding it was a sense of disgust and a glaring desire to control, to make the saboteur submit.

Jazz leaned forward and parted his lips, flashing his dentae in a grin. “I’d call you a liar.”

Whatever Argyrus wanted to reply was lost as a dark blue hand curled around the tycoon’s shoulder, forcing him to stop midsentence and jerk back in obvious surprise. “Unhand me.” He hissed. “Now.”

“Negative,” came the monotone reply and Soundwave’s visor burned a deep crimson as he stared the green mech down. For all his flash and talk, the green mech’s fervor died as he found himself recognizing the telepath’s obvious warbuild and something akin to frightened recognition flashed in his optics.

“You’re--” The sound of denting metal and then Argyrus’ pristine armor was no longer unmarred; he let out a strangled yelp and all but tumbled out of his chair, flailing as he struggled to make it back to his blue companion that had done nothing more than turn her helm to regard the struggle of her partner.

A couple bystanders watched, all with obvious glee, and silently cheered when Soundwave turned his attention to the blue femme. “Suggestion, find different table to sit at.”

The femme smiled softly. “Of course,” she said and bent down to grab one of Argyrus’ arms and all but dragged him away, the crowd parting for the tycoon that wrestled out of the femme’s grasp and promptly righted himself with an audible growl. Neither looked back.

Jazz watched them go with an odd mixture of relief and disappointment churning in his vitals. Both of which disappeared when he glanced up to stare into the telepath’s familiar scarlet gaze.

“I had that under control,” Jazz hissed, dropping his stance and turning to face the table again.

Soundwave settled into the chair beside him, a huff escaping him. “Negative. Jazz, losing control of target’s emotions. Situation...compromised.”

Jazz grinned though the action lacked any real humor. “If you’d waited a couple kliks more, you woulda found us both in a very compromising position.”

Soundwave’s hands curled into fists and Jazz’s Spark did that familiar little flutter.

After a brief moment of tense silence, Jazz shrugged and picked up his now warm cube of enex, swirling it slightly before giving it a copious gulp. The moment the liquid touched his glossa, a strong sour taste invaded his mouth and the saboteur couldn’t help but grimace as he forced himself to swallow.

He held the cube out at arm’s length, all sympathy for the barista evaporating in an instant. “UGH.”

Soundwave tilted his helm to one side, the reaction not what he expected. “What happened?"

Jazz wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, wishing he could spit out every drop of the offending liquid from his mouth. “Their enex is slagging bad.” He said angrily. “But like, really bad. It’s fragging sour.” He smacked his lips together a few times, hating how the action seemed to intensify the flavor.

Soundwave’s gaze fell to the half empty cube in Jazz’s hand and for a brief moment, the saboteur expected him to grab it and take a drink right then and there. But the telepath merely flagged the barista down and asked for another cube. It was procured immediately and Jazz couldn’t help but stare as that white faceplate retracted and those familiar lips puckered slightly to take a tentative sip of the imbibe. A pause and Soundwave’s lips pursed as he focused on the taste of the drink, gauging its chemical makeup for any impurity that could have caused the saboteur’s unfortunate drinking experience.

There was none.

“Enex’s flavor, optimal.” He said, turning to regard the gawking black and white mech.

Jazz growled. “Liar. Gimme that.” Without thinking, he’d ripped the cube out of Soundwave’s hand and took a sip, immediately recoiling when the same sour taste washed over his oral sensors. This time he wasn’t able to be so subtle about his misgivings and he barely had time to life his free hand to cover his mouth as he coughed the yellow liquid out. Most of it remained in his palm but a couple drops squeezed through his fingers, landing on the table and on top of Jazz’s armor.

Silence.

Jazz froze, optics wide behind his visor as he stared into the distance and his processor registered every single thing that had occurred in the past few kliks. Apart from almost publicly compromising himself and nearly choking on his own words, nothing had happened that he couldn’t smile and walk away from. But then he glanced at the cube in his servo and as he watched a drop of condensation drip down a side, he realized that this wasn’t his cube. It was _Soundwave’s._

Soundwave, who was sitting ominously still as a couple stray drops of enex dripped down his visor and faceplate, falling onto the floor and table to add to the mess already present.

_Oh._

Jazz felt the nausea return full force and he shuttered his optics, counting to ten and forcing himself to relax. It gradually subsided and he clenched his jaw as he opened his optics again, fully prepared to drive out of the venue if the surge of acidic reflux threatened its way up his intake again.

He was a little dizzy but for the most part he wasn’t on the verge of humiliating himself. At least, not any more than he already had.

Subspacing a mesh cloth, he took to wiping his hand, lips pulled into a grimace as he avoided meeting the telepath’s obvious gaze. He could guess what was lying in that scarlet pool without even looking; disgust, probably, maybe even a bit of resentment. It’s not like Jazz had a perfect record when it came to interactions with the former communications officer and for some reason, that thought had his vitals twisting painfully.

Frag it all. He gave his mouth a quick wipe and reached out to mop up the stray drops of the yellow beverage off of the table. The ones on the floor could stay there for all the saboteur cared; he wasn’t a fragging cleaning drone.

“Sorry about the mess,” he muttered half-heartedly, swiping at a rivulet of the yellow grade on his thigh and subsequently subspacing the cloth. Jazz put on a forced smile as he stared up at the telepath, prepping himself for the fallout of his blunder.

Soundwave’s visor was dim and his exposed lips were settled into a slight frown. But there was no malice in his EM field and he seemed terribly focused on some portion of Jazz’s lower face.

“What? Did I miss something--?” His words trailed off into a wisp of air as he watched Soundwave lift a hand towards him, fingers extended and palm facing upward. Jazz should have flinched, he should’ve had some line of instinctual coding push him into grabbing the offending hand and slamming it down onto the bar table. But for some odd reason there was no fear in the saboteur’s frame as that servo ghosted over the side of his helm, palm very gently molding itself to Jazz’s cheek. It was wet, slightly cold, remnants of the cube he’d been holding before Jazz had unceremoniously ripped it out of his grasp.

The thought made a warmth spread across the visible derma underneath his visor but he focused all of his attention on the interaction at hand. Wide optics were transfixed on Soundwave’s face which seemed to have adopted an expression that had the saboteur unconsciously leaning into the touch. The flutter in his Spark was back full force and Jazz couldn’t find it in him to squash it into submission; he let it dance its tune in his chest, systems humming as he watched the former communications officer.

Soundwave’s thumb was soft, the blunt tip rough against the soft derma of Jazz’s lower lip. But it was warm and the saboteur savored the tingling warmth it left behind in its wake as it traced his lip’s gentle curve.

Something was happening here, something dangerous but intriguing and neither seemed too keen on breaking the spell. Soundwave’s optics were narrowed behind his visor, focused on his thumb’s movements as if he were mapping out some complex algorithm. Jazz parted his lips lightly, fighting the urge to purr when that blue digit dipped into his mouth, caressing the tip of the unmoving glossa with something akin to reverence.

“Sounders…” He breathed, dental plates softly biting as he formed each glyph. There was a softness to his words, a neediness he didn’t dare acknowledge. But it was enough for the host mech. That digit delved into Jazz’s mouth, tracing smooth dental plates and reveling in the feel of hot oral lubricant and a flexible glossa that curled and lips that sucked.

The sour taste of the enex was erased instantaneously. All Jazz could taste was Soundwave, the fresh lightness of his polishing wax, the slight metallic undertone that he’d learned not too long ago was the telepath’s natural taste and the discernable tanginess of Energon goodies. The revelation made Jazz huff lightly in amusement as he recalled the former communication officer’s infatuation with all things spicy; Soundwave had no doubt raided the glowing red cubes at the concession stand, the tiny ones with crushed crystal coating the gummy tops.

When the finger receded, Jazz couldn’t help but whine softly and he leaned in, eager to follow. But the sudden invasion of personal space seemed to knock the telepath out of his trance and he shuttered his optics, fully alert. He glanced at his thumb, still glistening with oral lubricant and hastily rose from his chair, knocking it down in the process.

“Apologies.” Soundwave all but chocked, backing up and accidentally jostling a pair of mechs that had been versed in what looked like pleasant conversation. Both gave him dirty glares but they fell on uncaring optics, for Soundwave was long gone by the time anyone had the time to process what had happened.

Jazz sat frozen in his seat, leaning forward in reciprocation of something that had been suddenly ripped away without warning. A couple bots stared at him in confusion further down the bar and it took Jazz a moment to realize that he still had that stupid dreamy look on his face and his lips were parted in anticipation of something that was simply not going to come.

A hot wave of embarrassment washed over the saboteur, forcing him to jerk back and clamp his mouth shut with an audible snap. His alloy prickled with shame and all of a sudden, the noise of the ongoing celebration around him went up a couple octaves, mixing unharmoniously into a painful buzz that reverberated in his sensitive audials. The music’s rhythmic thumps could be felt inside every one of his struts, pounding away until the saboteur feared he’d burst.

He couldn’t breathe.

His frame was buzzing with subtle charge but his plating wasn’t hot nor were his fans turned on. There was clean air being filtrated through his systems. But he felt like he was drowning and all he could think about was getting a gulp of fresh air.

He all but stumbled out of his chair, visor dim as he struggled to tune out the cacophony of laughing voices and flashing lights, and pushed his way into the crowd. Several times a stray elbow found its way into his back or torso and he hissed in pain but ignored the throbbing when he caught a glimpse of the exit doors in the back.

With less dexterity than he’d like to admit, Jazz found himself out of the dancing bots and with a straight path to freedom. Heaving a sigh of relief, he made his way towards it but found himself pulled back by a rough hand grabbing his shoulder.

Whirling around, Jazz expected a mech looking for retribution. A small part of him, that hopeful foolishly optimistic part, wished it was a tall blue host mech with a searing vermillion gaze. But when his optics focused on the bot, he saw only worried blue optics hovering underneath a familiar red chevron.

“Prowl.” Jazz said, finding his voice again.

“Are you okay?” Prowl asked, leaning in so he didn’t have to yell. “What’s going on? The reception isn’t over yet.”

That was true. Thundercracker and Bluestreak still had yet to finalize the event with the traditional wiping off of the courting glyphs on each other’s frames. From his position, the saboteur could see them both still at their table, greeting late arrivals and encouraging the dancing mecha with wide grins. Both still wore the glimmering paint on their alloy.

“I have to go,” Jazz said, relieved that the odd episode of anxiety seemed to have worn off as the Enforcer’s EM field tentatively nudged at the edges of his own. It was a welcome reprieve but unfortunately not fully capable of cleansing Jazz of the emotions swirling around in his chest.

He hated leaving on Bluestreak’s special orn, even though he knew the former sharpshooter wouldn’t hold his absence against him. But Jazz couldn’t stay here.

“Why?” Prowl asked, hand falling down Jazz’s shoulder and arm to clasp the saboteur’s ebony hand.

Jazz stared at their conjoined hands and he hated how a small voice in the back of his processor told him that it was wrong. Shaking his helm, Jazz forced himself to stare into his former lover’s optics with as much resolution as he could. “I can’t tell you. But...you have to let me go, Prowler.”

The double meaning in those words was not lost on the Praxian and a brief flash of hurt clouded those blue pools. Jazz expected to feel the familiar brand of self-loathing in retaliation but as he waited, the churning feeling never came. Prowl’s grip on his hand loosened and all it took was a gentle tug and Jazz was able to slip his own hand free, clenching it into a fist as he let it fall heavily to his side.

“I’m sorry,” Jazz said for what seemed like the umpteenth time in the past millennia. He’d keep saying it until his last breath, over and over, hoping that perhaps the time would come when he’d truly believe the sentiment behind the glyphs. But today wasn’t it. He took a tentative step back, then another and another, until he put enough distance between himself and Prowl. With a last pained look, Jazz whirled around and ran through the doors, a wave of cold air hitting him as he emerged and stood panting on the steps of the venue.

The street was empty, silent and dark, but for all its dreariness Jazz found himself feeling relief as he hunched over slightly and inhaled deeply, soft exvents seeping past his lips. He tried to ignore the familiar tastes lingering on his glossa and he hastily wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he felt ghostly fingers trace the derma of his lips. But try as he may, the sensations remained and for a brief moment, irrationality gripped at him and he loathed to imagine wiping his frame of the remains of that elusive encounter.

He wanted a drink, a stiff imbibe with enough of a kick that would put him into stasis with only a couple cubes. But the thought of drinking, while enticing to his mind, made his tanks flip and he banished the thought for fear of feeling nauseous again.

Damn it all.

Straightening up, Jazz cast a look around himself and oriented his navigational systems. If he wasn’t fit to drink, then he shouldn’t be out at all. Maybe a nice long recharge was all he needed...and a large cup of unleaded Energon. Maybe two.

Swallowing roughly, Jazz took a step in the direction of the nearest shuttle station, too worn out to even contemplate driving back on his own. The events of the previous cycles played in his processor, from Bluestreak’s oaths to Argyrus’ advances and finally, to the encounter with Soundwave. Warmth and fear coiled in his belly, the ridiculous concoction almost making him sick. He couldn’t even begin to process what it is he should be feeling and the uncertainty made him uneasy.

Jazz always knows what’s up, especially when it came to his feelings.

So why was he so fragging confused?


	9. Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cybertron finds itself on the brink of something dangerous and Optimus and Megatron find themselves turning to an unexpected source for answers in their desperation. Meanwhile, Jazz tries to find closure but he ends up finding something he never expected.

_“Swallow me_

_and let your ravished mouth_

_drip poetry...”_

 

—H.L. Raven

 

 

 _“You know, this wouldn’t be the first time someone’s done this to me...”_                      

Soundwave jolted awake as the familiar voice sounded in his audials, caressing and accompanied by the ghostly touches of hot exvents and wandering fingers. His optics snapped open behind his visor and he was met with the dark outline of his berth chamber’s ceiling, obscured slightly by the tinted glass of his offlined visor. His fans were whirring, his chestplate heaving as his lips were parted to expel blistering huffs of air from his buzzing systems.

And his interfacing array was uncomfortably warm.

But thankfully the images of a particular saboteur were no longer playing across his vision and he found himself alone in his berth. The gelfoam surface was slippery with condensation and the prickling sensation along his backplating was uncomfortable, but the relief flooding through him overpowered his disquiet and he let out a heavy sigh.

It had been a dream.

Just a dream, he kept chanting as he rose from his berth, hands rubbing down his face in exhaustion as he felt the weight of yet another interrupted recharge cycle fall on his weary shoulders. This wasn’t the first time this had happened and he was sure that it wouldn’t be the last; memory influxes and dreams had been plaguing him since the mission in Uraya and he’d been unable to completely quell them during his defrag process.

Frenzy told him it was indigestion, as if Cybertronians would ever have such organic issues in the first place.

Ravage told him it was a guilty conscience.

He was inclined to believe the latter but he’d never voice it out loud. The last thing he needed was a preening feline following him around, reminding him of just how royally he’d ruined everything he’d invested himself in. The mission was just the tip of the metaphorical iceberg and the lingering remorse regarding the saboteur was an unfortunate byproduct.

Blinking the recharge from his optics, he wandered into the washracks adjacent to his berth chambers, palming at the matrixpad to reveal a misty room full of symbionts already in the process of executing their daily clean-up routine.

Laserbeak and Buzzsaw were floating in a little tub next to one of the walls, chirring happily when they caught sight of the host mech and flapping their wings. Liquid solvent splashed out the sides of the container, easily finding its way towards the drain in the center of the tiny room.

Ravage was shaking herself, armor plates flared as she tried to dislodge droplets of water from ticklish seams. She gave a huff when she stopped long enough to greet Soundwave but otherwise ignored him; she’d been like that for a while, silently stewing ever since they’d been reunited. A situation he’d have to rectify but not one he feared. Fallouts between him and his cassettes were not common but not unheard of given the fact that all of them possessed resilient personalities that refused to submit. It was one of the things he appreciated most about his symbionts.

Rumble and Frenzy were both fighting under the spray of the showerhead, grunting and elbowing as they simultaneously tried to wash the suds off of their armor. A few clangs and muffled shouts later, Frenzy found himself the victor and Rumble rubbed his aching aft from the floor with a venomous glare aimed at his twin.

The animosity ended when Soundwave stepped up towards them, and both twins glanced up with pleasant surprise.

“You’re finally up.” Rumble said, holding onto a protrusion on Soundwave’s leg to hoist himself to his feet.

“Finally.” Frenzy muttered, retracting his visor and using both hands to wipe at his exposed faceplates. Even through the shower, Soundwave caught sight of Frenzy’s scarred derma and the patch currently loitering over where his right optic usually resided. There was no longer any pain from the scars that remained from his injuries but the red and black mech loathed to be seen like this and he quickly did his business and brought his visor back down.

An ache went through Soundwave’s spark but he held his tongue, knowing that Frenzy wouldn’t welcome the worry. Rumble was less eloquent about hiding his feelings and Soundwave felt the hand on his leg tighten its hold, prompting the telepath to send discrete waves of reassurance through their side of the bond. The blue symbiont accepted the comfort, a warm pulse of thanks being his only response.

“Hey, ya missed a spot!” Rumble chortled once Frenzy stepped out of the solvent spray, taking his turn to wash himself off. Frenzy let out a growl, “No I didn’t.” He said confidently, though no one missed how he ran a hand over the area his twin pointed out.

Soundwave could only watch as Rumble and Frenzy eventually made their way towards the drying unit, Ravage shouldering in between them so the brunt of the pressurized air fell on her. Neither of the twins dared argue.

The ebony feline sauntered out of the washracks, red optics narrowed into slits as she caught his gaze before she shuttered them, turned her nose up in the air and turned her back on him with a lethal swish of her sharp tail.

Silence reigned over the remaining occupants of the washracks, broken only by the sound of the liquid spray and the idle drying unit.

Laserbeak let out a small squawk.

“Yeah, Beaky...” Rumble murmured. “She is pissed.”

“We both know why, though.” Frenzy said simply, and all optics turned to the silent host mech scrubbing his armor down. Soundwave’s exposed lips twisted into a slight grimace but he said nothing on the matter, continuing with his own personal cleaning. All the other symbionts eventually got the message and finished their own routines, eventually leaving Soundwave to stew with his thoughts in relative peace.

None of his symbionts were being unreasonable. Soundwave understood his fault in the current situation and Ravage’s anger was not unjustified; he was due to begin making reparations, to himself, his symbionts...and even Jazz.

Memories of the previous night’s recharge invaded his mind and he stifled a groan of frustration, instead focusing on scrubbing at his arm plating a little harder. The bristles dug into his alloy and the sensors beneath his began to ache from the extra pressure but the telepath ignored them both, finding that the prickles of pain helped keep him grounded. His emotions had been getting the best of him these past few orns, something he’d never had to worry about, even during the war, and it made him uneasy.

He was no stranger to failure; he’d accepted long ago that he wasn’t perfect and he’d become acquainted with the bitter taste of disappointment once or twice throughout his existence. But he’d learned to never make the same mistake twice.

Uraya...had been a mistake. A monumental one but certainly not one he couldn’t remedy. The incident at the bonding ceremony had been a lapse in judgment and he’d suffered enough for days on end to strengthen his resolve against making the same err. Whatever Ravage wished for him to do was irrelevant; he’d find his own solution to the situation.

With time, the warmth of the liquid hitting his frame disappeared and Soundwave hurriedly shut the nozzle off before it could get any colder. Drying himself off, he stepped back into his berth chambers, unsurprised to find Laserbeak loitering about on his berth. She was waddling from end to end, wings spread to keep her balance. She only halted when he appeared, cooing questioningly when she caught his gaze.

The worry in her field was enough to make the host mech reach for her, offering his arm as a perch. Gleefully, she took the offered position and glided towards him, claws gently latching onto his armor with a soft ping as she landed. Optics shuttering, she leaned in to nuzzle his cheek, a sound almost like a purr rumbling in her intake.

_~Are you okay?~_

Soundwave smiled softly, nodding. _~I am.~_ It wasn’t a lie; in as much turmoil as he may be, he wasn’t in danger of keeling over or dropping into emergency stasis without warning. He was just...tired.

_~You’ve been talking in your recharge.~_

That got Soundwave’s attention. Frowning slightly, he titled his helm in Laserbeak’s direction who ducked her helm bashfully as she realized her own admittance to having been watching him in his sleep. He wasn’t keen on admonishing her for it, he knew she got lonely and often flew into his room to find company, but he was curious to know what unfortunate revelations he’d made during this particular recharge cycle.

Almost dreading, he asked her over the bond what she’d heard. Laserbeak flapped her wings.

 _~Music~_ she said simply. _~You talked about music.~_

Something familiar coiled in Soundwave’s belly at the notion and he hated how his entire frame warmed at the influx of images that the word procured. But he quickly stifled them and deleted the line of code connecting the two reactions. He most definitely did not need that at the moment.

Laserbeak noted his hesitation and trilled inquisitively, leaning towards him in an effort to catch his gaze which seemed to have drifted as he delved into his thoughts. Shaking his helm, the telepath offered her a reassuring twitch of his lips.

_~Sorry.~_

The aerial lifted her shoulders in her version of a shrug _. ~You haven’t been sleeping well. You only talk in your sleep when you’re restless.~_ She paused, optics shuttering. _~Rumble and Frenzy say you’ve been busy...with work.~_ It was difficult to ignore how she hesitated on the last word, as if she didn’t quite believe the explanation that her siblings had told her but she wasn’t one to outright question anyone.

That job usually fell to Ravage. And _she_ was doing a fine job at questioning everything.

Soundwave observed Laserbeak’s features, eyeing the way her bright gold optics waited for an explanation and her EM field flickered with the desire to help. Out of all his cassettes, Laserbeak had always been the most perceptive when it came to Soundwave’s emotions and despite her relative youth, she always proved to be a good listening audial.

But the encumbrances weighing on Soundwave’s shoulders were too great to burden the perky aerial with and so he gave her a gentle tap on the tip of her beak and told her not to worry. Everything was going to be fine.

For a moment, Soundwave almost believed it. Laserbeak wasn’t fooled and she let out a small gust of air through her vents. _~Would you mind getting us some of those rust sticks from the confectionery store in Protihex?~_

Soundwave welcomed the change of subject and he nodded in affirmation. _~The silicon ones?~  
_

A happy trill. _~Yes! With the rust flakes and the zirconium fillings!~_ She paused, and then added, almost begrudgingly _. ~And the ones with the zinc shavings. Ravage is the only one who likes those but she’ll never admit it. Maybe if you buy them for her she’ll stop being so angry.~_

The telepath found himself amused by the aerials’ innocent solution and he hummed, acknowledging it. _~Perhaps.~_

The request for sweets was not something his symbionts did often; usually it fell to Soundwave’s spontaneous desire to indulge his cassettes for any sweets to make it into their compartment but every single time, the twins and Ravage expressed nothing but gratitude for the gesture. As of late, they’d all been behaving quite well and it was more that than his own guilt encouraging him to spoil them.

The store that Laserbeak spoke of was on his way to his work anyways so it wouldn’t be too much of a detour.

“Laserbeak, must refuel.” He intoned softly, gesturing to the exit to the berth chambers with a jerk of his chin. “Soundwave, needs to finish getting ready.”

Understanding, Laserbeak gave his cheek a final nuzzle before flying away. Faintly, Soundwave heard the other symbionts murmuring as she arrived in the kitchenette, clinking glass and the gentle hum of the activated Energon dispenser sounding.

With that, Soundwave glanced around his berth chamber, noticing it’s almost sterile cleanliness as he located the tin of polish lounging on the surface of the tiny stand beside his berth. It’s bright yellow container stuck out like a sore thumb and he grimaced as he picked it up, eyeing it briefly before taking the top off. The light fresh scent invaded his olfactory senses, stifling despite its subtlety.

It was one of the best brands he’d ever found, bought in bulk last time he’d been to a small Povian space port. This was his last of the supply and it dawned on him that he’d have to look around for more. He latched onto the miniscule problem with a vengeance, reveling in the feeling of finally having something finite to look forward to, even if it was only for a few orns.

He’d swing by one of the markets and look for it. Maybe even commission to have a replica made. Whatever he chose to do, it’d be enough to keep him busy.

 

~~~

 

Soundwave’s work was nothing flashy; he worked as an I.T expert at a small security company in Crystal City, aiding in the administration of small security systems for individual bots’ homes. He worked out kinks in the coding of the systems, sometimes helping with onsite installations and occasionally pitching sales when his manager asked him to when certain traveling salesmen called in absent. It was a modest occupation and many bots thought it was a waste of his talents.

It was, in a sense, but it earned him good credits and kept his mind busy without embroiling him too much in the politics of rebuilding. He’d had enough of social hierarchies to last him a lifetime and the reasonable hours left him with time to spend with his cassettes. That, in his opinion, was enough.

But he didn’t mean he’d entirely turned his back on the world project he’d fought to help reinstate. Security and communications had been his primary duty during the war and he was easily able to discern just how necessary both were for keeping a society intact; for a world where different sectors were growing at different rates, it was paramount.

Enforcers could only do so much but their systems were limited by the physicality of the mechs who operated within them.

Soundwave had a small side project he worked when he had some idle time in his office, something nobody commissioned him to do but which he felt would be necessary in the future. It was a planet wide public surveillance system, operated by an AI that used an algorithm to zero in on violence and led authorities to their cause. In theory, it would be the necessary witness to crimes enacted out of the visible eye, the ultimate source of evidence that would convict criminals without the need for lengthy investigations and time spent uselessly mulling over bad facts. But the AI was proving to be difficult to program and at the moment, it found it difficult to identify the difference between heated disputes and truly violent altercations.

More than once it’d alerted him back to his abode in agitation only for him to arrive to see Rumble and Frenzy fighting over whose turn it was to use the A controller on their gaming console.

Needless to say, it still needed some work.

“Soundwave!” Snapping out of his thoughts, the telepath exited the coding program he’d pulled up on his monitor screen, exchanging it for the disclaimer he’d been drafting for the new system the company had designed. The door to his office opened and the gangly burgundy figure of his manager invaded the doorframe, light from the busy hallway invading the dark sanctuary he’d built for himself.

Green optics glimmered with annoyance and immediately Soundwave knew that he was moments away from being burdened with yet another one of the burgundy mech’s discrepancies.

“Problem, Quickstart?” Soundwave asked, hiding his annoyance at being interrupted.

As usual, the other bot was oblivious to the misgivings of others. “We got another customer complaining about the alarm system,” he said, crossing his arms over his chestplate and leaning his shoulder tires against the doorframe. “Mech’s saying the sixty astrosecond time limit is not enough time for him to input his fragging code when he gets home. Sixty seconds! And the system says it’s not even a long one, just a four-digit combination he’s obviously too fragging dim to remember.” White hands were thrown into the air in exasperation, a disgusted scoff escaping his lips.

Soundwave nodded, listening. He had a pretty good idea who the customer was and he didn’t see how one could be so disgruntled with him; he was an olden mech, on the verge of spark burnout, and healed injuries had left his servos in disarray. He had no credits to get the care he needed and made do with what he had; a Spark truly deserving of pity.

But for companies such as these, individual customer needs were not paramount and more often than not, the needs of the few were left to crumble beneath the weight of the needs of the many. Soundwave made a mental note to stop by the customer’s abode after his shift, if only to increase the time he was allowed to input his code.

“Situation, will be rectified.” Soundwave replied seamlessly, glancing back down at his screen. But Quickstart made no effort to leave his position and the telepath forced himself to glance up once more. Those green optics were narrowed into slits, a familiar glint lingering in those emerald depths.

“You’re not much of a talker are you?” Ah, there it was again. Quickstart’s Nuetral status reared its ugly head and Soundwave stifled the urge tell him to frag off. But he needed this job and he couldn’t help the almost celebrity status that he held among bots he hadn’t fought against during the war; to Nuetrals, he was an oddity. An outlier with an obscure past, whose voice and Spark were the cause of many speculations and theories among the curious bystanders.

“Negative,” Soundwave said.

“Hmph.” Quickstart hummed, leaning back to stare at something further down the hall before gracing Soundwave with his full attention once more. “Well, it’s not good for you to be stuck down here all day and then just wandering home. It’s not healthy. So, what do you say about a drink at Visages?”

Soundwave was ready to turn down the offer but Quickstart quickly added, “It’s not just me. Klis down in Administration just got hitched so she’s inviting everyone whose available for a few celebratory drinks; nothing fancy but it’d be good for everyone to know you’re not some drone, y’know?”

It certainly wouldn’t benefit Soundwave in the least. He wasn’t friendly with any of his coworkers and frankly had little desire to mingle with any of them. But he knew that Quickstart would only keep pestering him if he refused so he settled for offering an ambiguous answer.

“Soundwave, will check schedule. Quickstart, will be alerted if attendance is possible.”

The burgundy mech smiled. “Pretty sure you have nothing scheduled. But that’s probably as close to a yes as any of us will ever get.”

Soundwave merely nodded in response.

For a moment, it looked like the telepath would finally have the peace he longed for but the sound of running pedes caught his attention and a huffing femme suddenly appeared next to Quickstart, golden optics round with surprised glee.

“Turran?” Quickstart asked, more amused than surprised.

The femme waved at Soundwave before turning to look at the burgundy mech, her hands clasped in front of her. “Quickstart! You gotta come see this.”

“What is it?”

Turran grabbed his arm and gave a hard pull in the direction she’d come. “Remember that Representative that was killed in Uraya? And that bet we all made over whether they’d find a replacement? Well, they just found a replacement...and every fragging bot in this office just lost a frag load of money.”

Both of them cursed, disappearing and leaving Soundwave frozen behind his desk. The door was open still, light spilling into the room and highlighting the dim visor of the blue host mech. But his surprise did not last very long and his fingers were flying over the keyboard of his console, closing tabs and pulling up the first media news outlet his search revealed.

A live broadcast was still in the process of being streamed and Soundwave opened up his wristport and plugged in, audials perked as the reporter hurriedly struggled to keep up with her own words.

_“—Standing here in front of the Assembly, where an emergency meeting as just been brought to order after Uraya officially announced their newly elected Representative for the Senate seat. Argyrus of Vos, former Ambassador during the old war and well-known member of the Purist movement, has just finished being sworn in. We now bring you live footage of his inauguration speech.”_

The screen flickered and the pink femme was switched out for the elegant figure of the newly elected representative, poised on the podium in the center of the Assembly building. His green paint was shining brightly beneath the bright lights of the cameras, his red optics heavily lidded as he smiled and addressed the assembled paparazzi (and begrudging collected representatives), hands clasped in a farce display of professionalism.

 _“My fellow representatives,”_ Argyrus said smoothly, oily voice sounding almost rich over the audio. _“It is with deep regret that I inform the court that Representative Pion has passed away. An unfortunate victim of the riffraff he sought to initially protect but whom turned against him in spite of his efforts to aid them during the healing of Uraya. A travesty I will not stand for; it is with humility and honor that I take this position, knowing that I have big footsteps to follow in.”_ A subtle smile at his own pun, which went unnoticed for the most part. _“I vow to use the wealth I have amassed during my business transactions to bring peace and stability to this beautiful city-state that I now humbly call home, whose people have graciously accepted me as one of their own.”_

His scarlet gaze riveted across the assembled politicians, faux warmth in their depths. Spreading his arms, Argyrus said, _“I hope my fellow representatives will show me the same acceptance that my predecessor was given and in turn, I vow to use all the resources at my disposal to help you rebuild a better Cybertron. Free of the dissent and oppression that toppled the previous tyranny, and brimming with the hope and innovation that once set this city-state apart from all the others. I vow that Uraya will become a beacon of social innovation and I stand to offer nothing but my most sincere efforts to make this dream, a reality. Thank you.”_

Professional applause followed the end of the speech and the camera panned to show the variety of faces, eventually zeroing in on the morose faceplates of Optimus Prime and Megatron. Optimus was staring at Argyrus with crinkles around his optics, no doubt a smile lingering behind his battlemask. But Soundwave knew, from eons of observing the mech during war, that his smile was forced and the stillness of his antennae indicated that he was suspicious. Mistrusting at the very least.

Megatron looked...pleasantly bemused, similar to how he had been during the war when Optimus had pulled a dirty trick to ensure an Autobot victory. He was enjoying the spectacle for all it was, drinking in the agitation of the representatives and the apprehension that was no doubt spilling over from his red and blue bonded. He wasn’t reveling in the dissension but he was not about to show he was as equally perplexed as his fellow politicians.

Soundwave wished he shared the sentiment. His blue fingers curled around the edge of his desk with each word, optics narrowing behind his visor as his dentae ground against each other. Spark pounding in his chestplate, he searched the DataNet to make sure this was true and that it wasn’t some elaborate hoax. But the response was the same for every media outlet and Argyrus’ faceplates were plastered on every digital newspaper, his obnoxious color scheme and exaggerated smiles frozen in time, and Soundwave could do nothing but stare in shock.

A small beep sounded in his commlink and he accepted it.

It was Frenzy.

_::Boss...are you seeing this?::_

_::Affirmative.::_

Frenzy hesitated, and Soundwave could almost taste his unease. _::What are we going to do?::_

Soundwave grimaced, visor flashing with a myriad of different emotions. _::Nothing. Cassettes, will remain at residence.::_

Frenzy gasped. _::But, Boss--!”_

 _::Frenzy, be silent.::_ Soundwave didn’t expect his tone to get so low or for his patient harmonics to morph into something equating a growl, but they did and the line went silent for three long kliks. But Frenzy was the most patient of his symbionts and when he finally spoke again, his voice was steady, understanding.

 _::I’ll make sure everyone stays in, then. Ravage’s not listening to anyone so you might wanna tell her directly.::_ A brief pause. _::Just...do what you gotta do.::_

Guilt gnawed at Soundwave’s insides and he let out a small sigh, pinching the bridge of his battlemask. _::Affirmative.::_ He replied. _::Apologies, extended for previous outburst.::_ He was anything but apologetic but he knew that the last thing he needed was to be making enmities brew between him and his remaining symbionts. Frenzy wasn’t at fault for the turn of events either so his anger was misdirected. He’d make it up to Frenzy in the future.

Right now...he had urgent matters to attend to.

 

~~~

 

“ _That fucking bastard_.”

Jazz smiled knowingly as the obscenity escaped the pacing Prime, readjusting his position on the comfy chair Optimus had abandoned in favor for wearing a dent into the floor. In the seat beside him, Megatron watched silently, stewing in his own thoughts as he watched his bonded stalk across the room with hurried footfalls in the relative safety of the living room in their abode.

Eventually the silence became grating and Jazz cleared his vocalizer. “What are we going to do about this?” There was a hard edge to his tone, that grittiness he always got before a nice long planning session among his SpecOps agents during the war. Optimus caught wind of it and he paused to fix his former saboteur with a stern glare.

“What do you know about him?” He asked.

Jazz’s smile hardened, all warmth evaporating like dew in the sunlight. “He’s bad news. His was the first name Pion gave me when I asked him about any shady figures in his life; you could say it was political rivalry, but Argyrus was the favorite to win in the preliminaries. Something happened, dunno what, but it helped Pion get to where he did.”

Megatron frowned, “Election fraud?”

Jazz shrugged, “Seemed too obvious and it definitely was. I hacked into the archived election data and the numbers added up. Pion won...fair and square.”

Optimus let out a frustrated growl, patience wearing thin. Crossing his arms over his chestplate, he let out a gust of air through his vents. “All of this speculating is getting us nowhere. We can pick at his life as much as we want around the edges, but if we don’t investigate him at the source, we won’t have any concrete evidence that he’s even related to the whole terrorist threat.” He massaged the side of his helm, shaking it softly. “For all we know, he might not even be relevant.”

“He’s relevant.” Jazz said coldly, smile completely gone from his faceplates. His façade held even under the scrutiny of both leaders. “I know he is.”

“Hearsay.” Megatron murmured.

The saboteur whipped his helm to glare at the warlord, visor flashing dangerously. “Perhaps. But it’s this hearsay that’s saved my aft more times than I count. Argyrus’ involvement in all of this is not a coincidence. I mean, what would a tycoon even gain from a seat in a political office. He’s gonna be under intense scrutiny. Any shady deals, skeletons he’s got in his closet or questionable practices he’s responsible for will eventually be brought to light and all that money he’s made will be in danger of going disappearing.” He leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees and hands clasped under his chin. “We need somebody close to him to spill. Maybe one of his couriers, that assistant of his that we saw at Blue and TC’s bonding. Or...” The blue light in the saboteur’s visor waned for a moment before flaring to full brightness. “We send someone in.”

“Oh, no!” Megatron retorted, turning in his seat to face the black and white mech and pointing a finger in his direction. “Not another infiltration mission. We both know how well that turned out the last time we attempted it.”

Optimus didn’t say anything but his expression showcased mild agreement with Megatron.

Jazz pulled one half of his mouth into an understanding smile, visor glowing a deep warm hue. “True. But that’s because we were doing it all wrong. We had no leads and you pitted two incompatible mission partners together without so much as a warning. Give me time to mull this over, to pull a team and plan together and I promise you, I will get results. Innocent or not, we’ll be sure of Argyrus’ involvement in all of this once and for all.”

Megatron and Jazz stared each other down, blue and scarlet gazes battling for dominance and neither yielding under the other. But it was ultimately Optimus who broke them apart, a relieved sigh escaping him.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

Saboteur and former warlord turned to regard the red and blue convoy with surprise in their fields, though Jazz looked pleasantly surprised than anything else.

“OP...” Jazz began.

“What are you planning?” Megatron finished, optics narrowed at the revelation that his bonded had been keeping something from him.

Optimus cast a sympathetic glance at him in turn before turning to face the front door. “Come in.” He said softly and the silver door parted to reveal a familiar black and white figure, doorwings high upon his back and red chevron reflecting the bright light of the inside of the abode. Sharp blue optics zeroed in on the Prime, an understanding lift to the corners of thinly pursed lips.

“Prowler...” Jazz breathed, faceplates visibly paling.

“Ah,” Megatron said, catching on. He turned to look at Optimus through knowing scarlet optics. “You have been busy.”

“Of course,” Optimus replied, silently preening at the veiled praise. “We may no longer be fighting on a battlefield but we are now officially fighting a silent war. Somebody has declared war on everything we’ve struggled to rebuild and that is something we cannot stand for. We fought for the opportunity to rebuild our would under a banner of freedom and it is up to us once more to make sure it remains that way.” He clenched a fist in a dramatic display of determination.

Megatron in some other time would have mocked Optimus’ dramatic flair but even he found himself moved by his bonded’s words. He may be tired of hearing politicians bicker and filling out mountains of paperwork and proposals, but he wasn’t keen on another revolution. Especially not one that could be evaded if the dissenters chose to speak instead of hiding behind idle threats. The former warlord held little respect for these perpetrators; only cowards hid behind threats and false words.

Prowl stepped inside, his rigid posture relaxing only slightly as he came to a halt behind the chairs. “Optimus sent all of the information you’ve managed to acquire regarding the two representatives in question, Pion and Argyrus. And after some time spent crunching the numbers, I’ve come to the conclusion that the chances that Argyrus is relevant to the situation at hand is 65.89%."

Megatron huffed. “Barely above 50%.”

Jazz smirked. “But still within a 15% margin of error.”

Prowl nodded, “Enough to warrant a thorough investigation.”

The former warlord crossed his arms over his chest, understanding when he was beat. “Well, then. I suppose you’re going to pull your spies and infiltrators from their lives and force them undercover?”

Optimus took a step forth, shaking his head. “Of course not. We already have a volunteer. And we have a plan.”

That caught both of Jazz’s and Megatron’s attention and they fixed Prowl with knowing gazes, scarlet optics narrowed and blue visor bright with anticipation.

“So, Prowler...tell me. What’s your plan?”

Prowl fixed the saboteur with a cool gaze, lips twitching into the start of a careful smile. “It’s quite simple,” he said smoothly. “You simply have to die, Jazz.”

 

~~~

 

“Three Earth days,” Jazz muttered, arms crossed and helm turned downward as he played with a piece of scrap with his pede underneath the glittering night sky and wandering city lights. It sounded like a while but when he thought about it with his own time’s increments, Earth terms seemed so trivial. So very tiny.

 _Make arraignments,_ Prowl had said. _Because chances are you’ll be gone for a very long time._

The saboteur grimaced.

He should be back at his compartment, drinking and recharging and maybe calling Prowl to apologize for the scrap he’d said at the bonding reception. He knew Prowl probably had forgiven him, it was in his nature, but it never hurt to make sure. Hopefully, the next time would be the last.

Laughter startled the mech out of his musings and he glanced over his shoulder to see a pair of femmes exiting the front entrance of the bar, both stumbling and hanging onto each other’s shoulders while grinning like a pair of high strung idiots. One of them caught his optics and smiled at him, but the saboteur merely dipped his helm in acknowledgement and went back to his pacing. They both shrugged and continued their way down the buzzing street, singing off key.

Okay. It was now or never. Jazz pressed a hand over the region of his chestplate that house his spark chamber, finding comfort in the beating essence. It was pulsing faster than normal and his chassis felt a tad hot to the touch but he attributed it to his apprehension and anxiety. Blue light waned as he shuttered his optics behind his visor, turning his helm up a little ways and then opening them very slowly. The neon sign hummed up above, the red letters pulsating softly as they curled in perfect Cybertronian calligraphy to form the name of the bar.

Wycom’s.

It was smaller than Jazz imagined and far grungier than he ever expected to find the bot of his interest lurking about but Rumble had assured him this was the place. Jazz hoped the scenery was better inside or else what little respect he had for Soundwave would disappear for good. A shiver went down Jazz’s spinal strut at the mention of the mech’s name, his Spark warming without his consent.

Any other time he would’ve squashed the feeling down but he knew now wasn’t the time to be leaving behind any loose threads of what little social life he had. What had happened between him and Soundwave needed to be brought to light and spoken about; even if they both agreed to put it off or simply let it be, Jazz needed closure.

Sighing heavily, he made to the front entrance, smiling at the bouncer and following a small black hallway that wound around the side of the building before connecting to the larger back portion of the establishment. The thumping music reverberated in Jazz’s frame and he dialed down his audial feedback instinctively, visor dimming as he encountered another bouncer that opened a door that revealed bright flashing lights that would have blinded any ill prepared mech.

Warm frames immediately assaulted him, curving and billowing like reeds in the wind to the music, some with glowing cubes in their hands while others held their partner’s hands. A few deftly swept out of his way but a few uncoordinated ones didn’t do so well and Jazz received a couple elbows to his torso.

Searing pain swept through his frame and the saboteur instinctively wrapped his arms around his chest, which managed to mildly subdue the strike of irrational fear the jostles spiked through his body. But his focus wasn’t on the dancers, graceful as they were. He was gazing around, looking for a familiar boxy blue frame and a vermillion gaze.

He found it, eventually. Even with his back turned, Soundwave had this air to him. While everyone slouched, his posture was perfect. And even from afar with so much background noise, Jazz could still hear the hum of the monotone voice traveling through the undulating waves of sound. The light of his visor thinned into a sliver of light across the width, HUD pulling up a myriad of glyphs as he focused on the mech that had been the root of so many sleepless recharge cycles.

Soundwave was talking to another mech, voice harsh, hurried and he kept digging a finger into the table surface between them. One, two, three and then a deep bass solo drowned out the sound of his hand slamming down palm first onto the surface. The other mech didn’t even flinch; he was a grounder, silver and with generic faceplates and he looked almost bored with the discourse being shared between them.

Jazz hung back, loitering on the edge of the dance floor near an empty table. He didn’t even notice he was biting his lip until the sharp pain of dentae sinking into derma assaulted him and he winced, glossa seeping out instinctively to wipe the Energon that seeped out of it the thin aperture.

Ultimately, the mech with Soundwave rose from his position and left, optics narrowed and muttering something unintelligible that left Soundwave recoiling slightly in surprise. Jazz couldn’t help but stare, curiosity peaked.

Perhaps a falling out with a coworker? Soundwave had a job, after all and he wasn’t exactly the droning loner everyone made him out to be. A small irrational part of him mused if it was a lover and he grimaced as the familiar twinge of envy twisted his vitals; he had no right to feel that way, of course, but he couldn’t seem to help it.

It was almost instinctual at this point in time.

Nerves steeling themselves, Jazz made a move to head towards a telepath but he was forced to freeze when another bot approached him. It was difficult to ignore the flashy yellow-green paint job, the blazing purple optics and the way his blue faceplates were parted with a drunken leer. Jazz had to stifle the growl that reverberated in his throat.

Swindle.

Jazz expected Soundwave to react as he had; grimacing and rejecting the company of the well-known black-market vendor with a cold shoulder. But moments turned into kliks after the former Combaticon sat down in the empty stool beside Soundwave and the telepath, now hunched over a glowing purple drink, made no effort to shoo away the smooth-talking mech. His helm occasionally turned to face Swindle, visor dim as he appeared to vaguely listen to some animated thing the merchant was retelling.

Jazz felt the unease in his belly coil and twist in his vitals as time passed and he could do nothing but watch the two bots, keen instincts noticing how Swindle subtly got closer and Soundwave’s posture gradually relaxed as the alcoholic imbibes started flowing.

Then, the unthinkable happened.

The dark blue hand nursing the half empty cup of jet-fuel high grade slid a little ways down the table, movements clumsy, ungraceful, culminating with the broad palm resting on a pale grey thigh, blunt fingers massaging unseen seams with a softness that left Jazz breathless.

His own plating burned as memories swept through his processor and he felt the flutter in his Spark return with a vengeance, leaving him reeling and clutching at the table to support himself. He glanced away from the spectacle, knowing he was gonna be sick if he kept on watching and tried to focus on the dancers surrounding him. But his optics kept sliding back to the blue telepath, to that wandering hand and warm red visor and he couldn’t stand it.

He left.

Fresh air met him as he exited out the side door, and the saboteur greedily gulped it in, expelling the musky air of the bar from his now whirring fans. He wanted to go home; to lie under the thermal blankets of his berth and just curl up and recharge.

But he knew he couldn’t do it. Jazz was many things but a bot who left situations unresolved was not one of them; righting himself, he leaned against the wall opposite the exit and steeled himself to wait the rest of the night to see what would meet him out here. If Swindle and Soundwave left together, then Jazz would accept the meaning behind the gesture and leave. But if it was anything else...well, somethings were still left to be said.

Even if they weren’t pretty.

Fortunately, Jazz didn’t have to wait long. In less than two Earth hours, the door before him swung open and a familiar boxy frame blocked out the flashing lights, poised gracefully for an astrosecond or so before stumbling ungracefully to the dirty alley.

Alone.

Jazz held his glossa, watching as Soundwave curled an arm over his torso and walked a little way forward, mask retracting as he purged a considerable amount of purple jet-fuel high grade. The acidic smell reached Jazz’s olfactory senses and he gagged, holding a hand over the lower part of his face before smiling softly.

“Had a little too much Engex?” Jazz said nonchalantly, stepping forward and emerging from the shadows. The other mech let out a static warble of surprise, back stiffening in a way that was almost comical. The saboteur expected another cold shoulder, maybe even a sappy poem, but he certainly wasn’t prepared for what Soundwave offered in turn.

“Go away,” Soundwave intoned, groaning softly as another ripple assaulted his frame. He gagged but nothing came out and he held his hunched pose for a few moments before righting himself, wiping stray residue from his lips with the back of his hand. The faceplate snapped back into place before the saboteur could enjoy those parted lips and Jazz couldn’t help but mourn the loss of such a sight.

“Nah, mech, I’m not going anywhere.” He said, smiling. “Not tonight.”

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them when they stared at each other and Jazz swore that he could feel tinges of charge snapping across the seams of the telepath’s flared armor, the sharp taste welcome on Jazz’s glossa. Another step closer and the smell of purged tanks became stronger but Jazz could only focus on the fresh scent of that wax he’d grown so fond of in the past few quartexes. It warmed his entire frame and he resisted the urge to get closer; even if his Spark kept urging him to reach out and touch, the rationale part of Jazz prevailed in reminding him that this wasn’t a reunion.

It was, for lack of a better word, a confrontation.

Eventually Jazz was the one who broke the silence, crossing his arms over his chestplate and tilting a hip to one side. “Didn’t know you were friends with Swindle,” He said, succeeding in hiding the contempt in his voice. “But the things you learn about other bots, right? I’m not judging though; it’s great. Really great.” Jazz internally winced at the words flying out of his mouth, horrified by the lack of tact and the obvious envy all but dripping from every word. What the hell as wrong with him? In an effort to save face, he tried to deflect the conversation onto the telepath. “What happened, Sounders? Did he find your drunken advances lacking their usual charm?”

Soundwave was uncharacteristically still, the only sign that he was listening the waning brightness of his scarlet visor. 

Jazz sighed, defeated. “Is this about Uraya?” He asked quietly, hating how hopeful his voice sounded. “Because if it is, mech, we can talk about it—.”

“Negative,” Soundwave said and his voice was as cold as ice.

The saboteur grimaced, well acquainted with that tone to know it was an intentional deflection. “Well then what is it? Is it about the what happened at the bonding ceremony?” An almost painful pause. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?”

Soundwave canted his head to one side, visor unreadable. “Jazz, confused.”

“Confused?” Jazz made no effort to hide how well his tone went with the word.

Soundwave took a step towards him, rising to his full height until he all but loomed over the saboteur who found himself cowering slightly in spite of himself. “There is nothing to discuss. Interface that occurred, pleasurable but not exclusive. Purpose, merely pleasure. Nothing more.”

And there it was. The unspoken elephant in the room, poked and prodded to stampede around the fucking room. Jazz hesitated, struggling to come to terms with how the revelation made him feel. He was no stranger to interfacing, much less when it came to amount to nothing more than one night stands without any strings attached. Most of his life had been made up of him telling hopeful subordinates and strangers the same thing, cementing the fact that he wasn’t looking for anything involving emotional attachment.

He’d been met with more understanding reactions than negative ones and the saboteur had always held a firm belief in the practice.

He was no stranger to this. So why was his stupid Spark refusing to accept the fact?

Jazz cocked his helm, feigning indifference. “Hmm. Comfort ‘facing. Can’t really argue against that.” He hated how his Spark twisted at those words.

Soundwave huffed, “No, you cannot.”

The saboteur froze for a moment, caught off guard by the response. Then he slowly fixed Soundwave with a grimace, hydraulics hissing as he tensed in dreading anticipation. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He made no effort to quell the warning lingering in his voice.

The telepath was unperturbed. “Jazz. Known for being Autobot berth warmer during war. An easy ‘face. Easy to manipulate. Simple to—.”

Jazz didn’t pull his punch. It came as a surprise, to both of them, but mostly to the saboteur; he wasn’t prone to violent outbursts, despite his reputation. He felt his knuckles shatter under the impact of the other mech’s face, feeling smugly satisfied when he sensed the battlemask cave and the visor shatter, the tiny vermilion pieces digging into his knuckles and scattering like tiny drops of rain on the dirty floor underfoot. When Jazz stumbled forward with lingering momentum and Soundwave staggered backwards, hand nursing his injured face, Jazz took the moment to look up and his Spark twisted upon seeing the wide gold optics that were revealed behind the red band. They were a clear yellow, expressive and wide, glittering an almost golden hue in the dim light of the alley.

He was tempted to be mesmerized by them but when they shuttered and blinked the surprise out of them, there was only cold resolution residing in those amber pools. None of that warmth from all those nights ago, the kind that had made Jazz’s Spark sing a tune he never thought it capable of. The emotions lingering in Soundwave’s optics weren’t the kind one offered to a lover. It wasn’t even one you offered to a stranger. The darkness lingering in the telepath’s gaze was dangerous, and something Jazz never thought he’d see facing him again. That raw anger, ferocity (and dare he say hate?) in the look Soundwave was leveling at him was the kind you gave to your enemy. It was the kind shared by people on opposite ends of the battlefield who were ready and willing to kill.

Jazz didn’t understand. He wanted to, so desperately; he wanted to be angry, to be so full of unshakable fury that he was left utterly breathless. But for some unknown reason his frame was refusing to comply and the only thing coursing through him, apart from flagrant disbelief, was _hurt._

He felt the telltale prickling in his optics and he forced himself to blink the gather coolant tears away; he wouldn’t cry. Not over this. Never over something like _this._

Jazz grimaced, pushing down all the hurt and bringing forth every ounce of liquid anger he was capable of, until it was boiling in his vitals and he was panting in the way he always did when his fans couldn’t keep up with the heat. How could he have been so stupid? So, fucking _gullible_?

The urge to tackle the mech and continue punching nearly overpowered the saboteur but he only managed a tiny step forward before he was reeling himself in; the smell of fresh Energon managed to catch his attention and his attention went to his injured hand, which was spasming slightly at his side. With as much gentleness as he could manage in his frenzied state, he cradled his injured appendage to his side and fought the against the nausea and pain twisting his Spark.

Staring at the Energon stained faceplates that had been haunting his dreams, Jazz forced himself to gaze into his optics. He wasn’t about to give Soundwave the satisfaction of knowing just how much he’d hurt him. “I never want to see your face again,” he said unforgiving, voice dripping with acid. “You fucking slag eater. Rust in the _Pit_.”

Jazz stumbled in his haste to turn around and stalk away, pain his chest almost blinding. But he righted himself by holding onto the wall briefly before disappearing into the night.

He never looked back.

_ _ _

The strength in Soundwave’s legs gave out as soon as the familiar black and white frame was swallowed up by the shadows and he fell painfully onto his hands and knees. The throbbing in his face was unbearable and he couldn’t see too clearly with his right optic; glass was embedded in his cheek and he ground his dentae together to feel the sharp crunch of crystal shards in his mouth. He smelled and tasted only Energon and his jaw felt like it was slightly dislocated.

He...was a mess.

The patter of tiny footfalls and a flare of concern alerted him of Rumble’s presence long before the blue frame came into his periphery, small hands tentatively touching the uninjured parts of his helm.

Soundwave had his suspicions as to how Jazz got here in the first place and he was mildly surprised to see that it had been Rumble who had orchestrated this encounter. He knew he should be angry, livid at his symbiont for being so reckless in matters that didn’t concern him. But upon seeing the raw incredulity on his tiny faceplates, Soundwave knew what he’d witnessed was punishment enough.

He let the gentle touches continue, wheezing slightly.

Rumble turned his helm to look at him, optics sad behind his visor. “You didn’t have to do that, Boss.”

Soundwave grimaced, wiping Energon from his lips with one hand as it dribbled down his broken noseplate. “Rumble, will be silent.” Not angry didn’t mean he’d completely forgiven him.

“But--!”

A harsh glare and the cassette went silent, dipping his helm in quiet submission. They stayed like that for a while, Soundwave silently gathering his strength and rerouting his Energon flow to stem the drip from his injuries. When he rose to his feet, he was shaky, unsteady and had only the quiet support of the symbiont standing beside him. All four of the other bonds were blocked from the other end, similar feelings of surprise and disappointment seeping along the edges. But Soundwave ignored them all.

He stood by his decision.

Regardless of whether or not his symbionts believed in the wisdom of his actions, this was a situation that they ultimately had no say in. It would take a long time for them to forgive him for excluding them but he didn’t care.

Too much was at stake for him to give into regret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...that escalated quickly, didn't it?


	10. Complications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a plan...and then there wasn't.

_“I know you_

_the way a_

_ghost know it’s_

_shadow.”_

 

—Mia Hollow

 

 

 

“This isn’t a good idea.” 

“It isn’t.”

“Then explain to me why we’re even doing this at all?”

Prowl resisted the urge to let out an exasperated sigh, fixing his lieutenant with a stern glare instead. “Because we’ve been ordered to, Riot.”

Riot grimaced. “I still don’t like it.”

The pair of Praxians were currently standing to the side of the elevated platform, watching as a crowd of bots poured into the arena from the pair of double doors situated in the back of the amphitheater. The majority of the crowd consisted of Praxians, newer builds borne out of the local hotspots with a few dispersed ones showcasing the undeniable physical traits of sparking. Hotspot borne bots tended to be more uniform whereas those created out of the union of two separate sparks tended to be more individualistic, with odd coloring and kibble that didn’t quite fall underneath the norm. Then again, it wasn’t easy to discern a bot’s CNA traits off of appearance alone so Prowl strove to divert his observations to something more worthwhile.

The colors and physical appearances were driven to the back of his processor and his focus was completely zeroed in on the mannerisms of the arriving bots. Twitching optics, subtle heard turns, hunched shoulders...he took it all in, separating the nonaggressive stances from the latter and coming up with lists of who he had to watch out for. He already knew what to expect but it never hurt to be thorough.

The stage behind him was empty, save for an elegant podium that had a red cloth draped over the edge that held the symbol of the Prime. It was a nice textile, with gold embroidery and metallic frills that shone as it caught and refracted the light above. Optimus had claimed it was too frivolous and that using it would be akin to flaunting wealth that he did not have despite his title but Megatron had cuffed an antenna and gruffly told him to suck it up. The Prime had looked slightly abashed that his bonded was exuding more confidence with his role than he was, but Prowl quickly caught onto the fact that all of this was quite familiar to the former warlord.

Megatron had made his debut into the world of politics and war delivering speeches and this was nothing more than another appearance he would have to pull off. There was no one to sway, no vileful Senate aiming to silence his words, so Megatron took comfort in the fact that no true responsibility rode on his shoulders. His job, as his title suggested, was to protect the Prime. A feat he’d proven to be quite adept at despite his eons of experience striving to do the exact opposite.

Riot’s engine gave a small growl and Prowl snapped out of his musings to cast a curious optic at his second; the silver mech’s wings are hiked up along his back, stiff and erect as his golden optics zero in on a small group of bots loitering near the front row of the gathered spectators. None of the bots seem out of place, talking among themselves with an eager air and gesturing wildly towards the front with zeal. A couple held cameras, others datapads.

But then one of the bots dropped one of their devices and bent to pick it up with a groan and that’s when Prowl saw it. A femme, with silver panels and a clear visor was poised stoutly among the moving bots, her good posture and crossed arms making her stand out against the agitation of the other frames jostling around her. Her narrowed gold optics gazed up at the stage, an unreadable flicker lingering in their depths. Immediately, Prowl’s processor stored her into the list of those to look out for though no direct warnings pop up on his HUD.

Riot, however, seemed to think the opposite. He hadn’t noticed Prowl staring at him and as the femme began to let her gaze wander around, the black and white commissioner reached out to touch his lieutenant’s arm and the silver mech almost jumped out of his armor.

“Are you alright?” Prowl asked.

For a moment, Riot’s gold optics shone a little too brightly and he doesn’t quite appear to notice Prowl’s question, but then they shuttered and recognition replaced the confusion in those amber pools. “Of course,” Riot said good-naturedly, as if nothing had happened. “Just...got distracted.”

Prowl pursed his lips. “Well, I advise your refrain from that. We have a Prime to guard.”

Riot smiled, “I haven’t forgotten. Don’t worry--” he added when Prowl’s look of mild apprehension remained. “—I have everything under control.”

“I know,” the black and white mech replied, turning his gaze back to the crowd. To his surprise, the femme is gone and though he swept his optics around the area he last saw her, he doesn’t catch sight of silver or gold that matched her appearance. Odd, but not a surprise. Perhaps she’d moved somewhere else.

A small beep brought his attention inward and he narrowed his optics as he opened up the familiar communication line, finger pressed to his audial to amplify the signal.

_::Report.::_

Sideswipe’s voice filtered through Prowl’s internal speakers like a tsunami, good-natured and cocky. _::Ouch. That any way to speak to your lover, mech?::_

Prowl discreetly rolled his optics. _::Now isn’t the best time for snide remarks, Sideswipe.::_

_::I know, I know. Just wanted to let you know that Prime’s ready to step out. Smokescreen’s announced that they’re finishing up on security sweeps on the last bots coming in and so far, nobody’s brought up any red flags. Most dangerous item confiscated so far was some Syk some idiot tried to smuggle in under his glossa. Other than that, we’re in the clear.::_

That wasn’t good. Prowl didn’t dare voice the fact out loud but anyone who knew him could tell from his posture alone that the news didn’t sit well with the former SIC. But he wasn’t about to go spilling the true reason they were even having this rally in the first place, especially not with so many bots within earshot. So, using his best neutral tone, Prowl’s helm gives the briefest of nods and he replied. _::Good. Tell Optimus to hang back until everybody is settled.::_

With a pulse of affirmation, Sideswipe ends the comm and Prowl turned to Riot, who had been staring at Prowl expectantly.

“Bad news?” Riot mused, staring at Prowl’s twitching doorwings.

“More like insubordination,” Prowl lied smoothly, internally cursing his inability to control his physical tics. But he didn’t have time to berate himself; the first misstep of the operation had come about and Prowl needed to make rectifications before proceeding forth. Murmuring orders to remain in his position, Prowl left Riot and sauntered up the stage, disappearing behind the curtain and making his way into the tiny corridor leading to the preparation rooms. It was easy to discern the one Optimus and Megatron were in from the bright red speck standing in front of it, pose relaxed despite the weight resting on his shoulders.

Smiling softly, Sideswipe greeted Prowl with a tilt of his helm. “Hey, Prowl.”

“Sideswipe,” the black and white mech replied, letting some warmth seep into his voice. That, at the very least, was something he didn’t have to work at all to procure. It made Sideswipe’s optics lighten up and he twirled the staff in his hands deftly, setting it down and resting one side of his frame against it.

“Need to speak with the Big O?”

“Yes,” Prowl said, narrowing his optics slightly at the obvious butchering of Optimus’ name. But they weren’t at war anymore and militaristic protocols no longer held up; it was a slight Prowl could overlook, if for nothing more than because he knew Sideswipe said it with no ill intent.

Stepping aside, Sideswipe palmed the matrixpad of the door and it whirred open, allowing the Praxian to step inside. It was a modest room, with a berth and chairs and several unused pieces of equipment barricaded in a corner. Both leaders were currently sitting on the berth, helms snapping up in tandem when Prowl entered, dual colored gazes searching the Praxian’s frame for anything that gave away his reasons for appearing.

“What’s wrong?” Optimus asked, voice worried. It was odd to see the mech who’d faced down legions of soldiers on his own look so nervous about an operation happening during peacetime. But given the precarious nature of the operation, everybody involved had every right to be wary. When Prowl held out his hand and opened up his wristport in a silent gesture asking for permission for a three-way hardline, the Prime didn’t hesitate to reciprocate. With smooth movements of their hands, thin black cables with pulsing biolights connected them together in a circuit, firewalls lowered just enough so they could get their basic thoughts across.

_~Our target is nowhere in sight..~_

Both leaders stiffened, but it was Megatron who spoke and even via hardline, his voice was a deep growl. _~What does that mean?~_

Prowl sighed. _~It means our bounty hunter hasn’t arrived. He was scheduled to appear today, to go through security where Smokescreen was stationed. But we’ve finished the security sweep we’ve done of all the attendants and all passed the security screening. He isn’t here.~_

 _~And that means...?~_ Megatron made no attempt to hide his own impatience.

_~So that means we have an AWOL bounty hunter with a shoot to kill contract aiming for Optimus Prime..~_

Optimus frowned. _~Is there any method of contacting him?~_

Prowl opened his mouth to reply but nothing came out and he quickly clamped his mouth shut, mulling over his calculations. A grimace crossing his fair features, the tactician replied, _~We used an alias and all transactions were done indirectly over heavily encrypted channels.~_ He shook his helm. _~We couldn’t afford to have this linked back directly to us. Jazz’s cover depends on the success of this operation. The only consolation at the moment is that I have all the officers under my command stationed at every possible point of entry in the building. Nobody can get in or out without tripping an alarm.~_

Megatron’s engine gave a low rev of warning. _~If you think I’m going to allow Optimus out there with such an obvious risk lurking in the shadows, I’ll be inclined to say you’ve gone mad.~_

At once, Optimus turned to his bonded, blue optics pleading. _~Megatron. Now isn’t the time to be overprotective.~_

The former warlord turned to glare at the Prime, dentae bared in a silent growl. _~If you die, that means full leadership of the Assembly falls to me. No way in the Pit am I allowing that to happen.~_ Despite the seemingly playful nature of the words, Megatron’s field indicated that he firmly dreaded that scenario becoming a reality. It was oddly endearing, in a twisted macabre sort of manner.

But Prowl wasn’t there to gauge the intricacy of the bond between the two leaders, he was there to plan. He curled his index finger and brought it up against his chin, optics narrowing as he put up his firewalls and let his internal processor run through the diagnostics. It was an odd feeling, calculating how one would attempt to kill the mech he’d spent eons attempting to protect but it didn’t hinder him in the slightest.

If anyone ever told him he’d be helping stage a murder, he would have scowled disbelieving in their faceplates and told them to get lost. But yet there he was, plotting with two reconciled leaders with half of the Cybertronian population and masses of reporters standing just a few feet away.

It had been a short while ago, maybe a quartex or so, back when Optimus had contacted him with an urgent request. He’d been roused from recharge by the gentle beeping of a datapad and had to all but fight a half-lucid Sunstreaker whose first instinct had been to attempt to grab the offending device to chuck it at a wall. Needless to say, Prowl had ended up on the floor with the oddly worded distress message illuminating his berth chambers with two matching pairs of blue optics groggily trying to read over his shoulder.

A meeting had been requested.

Prowl assumed it’d be something simple like perhaps an inquiry into how to handle a certain area of infrastructure; it was no secret that he’d played a big part in Praxus’ rebuilding and the city-state’s success said much about him. But he certainly hadn’t expected to be told that they were on the receiving end of a terrorist threat; one could imagine the lack of appreciation he’d had when told that Soundwave and Jazz had been sent to investigate and had gone missing for a short while before turning up unannounced, almost in actual pieces with a main source dead and the city-state in question now under heavy media attention. It reminded Prowl of just how unexperienced both mechs were when it came to tactical command and he’d wished someone had trusted him enough to bring him in sooner.

He understood the reasons why they waited until now to involve him but that didn’t mean he liked them.

Sending an undercover agent into Argyrus’ social circle had been one of the less anticipated options on Prowl’s list but time had proven to be a major obstacle and it quickly made its way to the forefront. Jazz, as usual, had been the number one candidate for the job if for nothing more than experience and sheer availability.

Prowl stilled, recalling. Mentions of his former lover always roused a sense of sadness in the Praxian, reminding him of things left unsaid and futures that would never unfold, but he leanred during the war how to push those sentiments aside and with an iron-clad will, he’d outlined the current plan at hand down to the last detail.

Jazz’s occupation as the former Autobot TIC made him too recognizable and even if he wandered through the social hierarchy, lacking a formal occupation that kept him in the public eye, his presence was still noticeable. If he went missing, bots would assume his involvement if for nothing else than his reputation and former affiliation with both of the current leaders on Cybertron. So, the only logical thing to do would be to get him off the radar...permanently. And what better way to orchestrate it than doing it at a live event?

The bounty hunter was an organic, petitioned by a former Decepticon named Flareup, a protégé of Makeshift who possessed the same shifting abilities. Flareup had taken up the appearance of a deceased Nuetral and negotiated for the death of Optimus Prime, which culminated in blind transactions and small messages on burner servers. Everything had been monitored, recorded and stored for posterity’s sake.

For a brief moment, Prowl wondered if he’d missed something and Flareup had somehow managed to slip in a piece of information without his knowledge. But Megatron quickly counteracted the stray thought with a vehemence. Makeshift was loyal to Megatron and Flareup was loyal to Makeshift; in essence, she wouldn’t dare make a move without Megatron’s authorization. 

Prowl hated the certainty in the warlord’s tone. Because that was the same certainty Prowl had heard in various bot’s voices during the war; in Decepticons who believed they were worth enough to be rescued, in Autobots who didn’t believe bondeds and friends would ever betray their cause. The former often saw themselves killed before Autobot interrogators ever got to them and the latter ended up dead at the hands of those they loved.

 _~We need to cancel the event.~_ Prowl said softly. _~Face the public backlash and rework our plan.~_

He expected agreement and he caught traces of it in Megatron’s EM field but Optimus was uncharacteristically silent and he glanced up, optics narrowed. “No.”

Megatron scorned. “‘No?’”

The Prime shook his helm. _~We have the home field advantage here. Even if the attack occurs in a different manner, our objective is still the same. Jazz will take whatever hit is meant for me. If we cancel the event, chances are the bounty hunter will catch wind that something’s wrong and everything will be made even more complicated.~_

Prowl hated the fear that curdled in his belly at the notion, despising the nonchalant way Optimus said the words and how easily he knew Jazz would accept the new terms. The saboteur was reckless in that way and Prowl’s logical center preened at the logic in his former commander’s words and the versatility of his former lover.

 _~No.~_ Prowl found himself surprised at how automatic the response was. Scarlet and azure optics stared at him with perfectly synchronized surprise.

 _~Prowl...~_ Optimus began, free hand reaching out towards his former SIC.

Megatron growled, cutting off whatever the Prime wanted to say. _~Now isn’t the time to be getting sentimental, Praxian. We called you into this because we trusted you to keep a level head, to plan and organize everything in a way that would guarantee the best odds.~_ A pause. _~Optimus spoke highly of you. I...respected your contributions during the war. But seeing you now, in action, I find myself inclined to believe that I’m speaking to a very different mech.~_

Prowl stiffened, hot shame flooding through his entire frame. He knew everything Megatron had said was true, no matter how much Optimus’ field contradicted the warlord’s sentiments. Megatron was right. Prowl was allowing sentiment to get in the way of his planning and it was over a mech who had been the one to break his Spark and end the first thing Prowl had ever learned to cherish outside of his occupation as an Enforcer before the war and his position as tactician during. He kept on saying he held no ill will towards Jazz, that he forgave him and that he was fully vested in his relationship with Sideswipe and Sunstreaker.

But it turns out he was deluding nobody but himself.

What a poor excuse of a tactician he was turning to be.

They stood in silence for a moment, Prowl’s gaze slightly pained while Megatron’s held that icy disbelief, Optimus staring between them with unease. Time ticked by and each passing nanoklik left them with less and less time to plan accordingly. But neither bot stood down and it was the eventual pounding on the door that drove them out of their prideful standoff.

“We’ve got hordes of antsy reporters and spectators out here,” Sideswipe yelled, annoyance seeping into his words. “You guys done covering Megatron’s ugly mug or what?”

Megatron grimaced at the frontliner’s words but otherwise said nothing, instead silently plugging out from their hardline and rising to his pedes. “Optimus,” he said sternly, turning to his bonded. “I believe you’ve got a speech to deliver.”

For a moment, the Prime was amazed by the former warlord’s words, considering how he’d admonished this particular course of action just moments ago, but Optimus quickly gained his composure, determination lighting up his optics. “Yes,” he agreed, already unplugged and on his feet.

Prowl was the only who was silent but it was with a heavy exvent and a slight dip and rise of his doorwings that he righted himself. “I’ve alerted my men,” he said, resolution in his voice. His optics found the steady azure ones of his former commander. “Optimus, you’re clear to proceed.”

Optimus’ gaze softened for a moment before he briefly shuttered them and dipped his helm in acknowledgment. “Have faith, Prowl.” He said before stepping past the black and white Praxian, heavy steps confident and sure even as he headed towards the unknown. Megatron’s matched the Prime’s with ease, keeping in step and backstrut straight as he focused on keeping the mech beside him functioning.

An organic bounty hunter was of no match to the former miner turned gladiator, not now or ever. Prowl was no Soundwave, who to Megatron’s chagrin had been taken an unexpected hiatus and was therefore unreachable, but he was competent enough to make this work.

Sideswipe hesitated for a moment, catching Prowl’s optic as the open door stood between them. He looked slightly worried but before he could even open his mouth to say anything, Megatron’s harsh summons made him clamp his mouth shut and the frontliner was forced to follow his charges.

Prowl knew he had a long conversation ahead of him but the dread of such an event was outweighed by his desire to see this current operation through. Swallowing roughly, Prowl opened a communication line with Riot, readopting the stern façade everyone knew him by.

“You took your time,” Riot said cheerily, a smile audible in his deep voice.

“A situation arose,” Prowl said. “But it’s been taken care of.”

“Good. You heading back out here?”

A pause, then. “Yes,” Prowl said, opening up a small hatch on his forearm and typing a couple glyphs into the screen that was integrated into his frame. “I’ll be there shortly.” He sent them with a swipe of his thumb and at once received a reply.

> _No problem; I got this._

The optimism was hard to miss and for a brief moment, Prowl smiled. But he squashed any amusement down as he made his way back to his position, bypassing the stagehands and giving a curt nod at his lieutenant once he retook his position between the crowd and the stage. There, among the noisy rumble of the spectators, the flashing cameras and buzzing air...Prowl waited to watch his best friend to die.

 

~~~

 

_“You’re running away from something.” The words echoed through the empty medical bay, resolute in their meaning._

_Jazz laughed, already knowing who the deep baritone and slightly pessimistic words belonged to without even turning to look. “Nothing ever escapes you, does it?” Applying the last coat of white paint to his reinforced chassis, the saboteur turned to regard the Praxian with a wide grin plastered on his face. There’s a twinkle in his visor and Prowl couldn’t help but find solace in it, even if it’s as brief as his own smile._

_“When it confirms to my friends, I can’t afford to.” Prowl hated the way the word ‘friend’ tasted on his glossa, bitter, like an Energon jelly gone bad. He wanted to soothe it with the honey of lovelier words that were teetering on the tip of his tongue, with those glyphs that made his Spark sing and his chassis erupt with warmth. But he understood that he couldn’t and so he simply swallowed the guilt and the longing._

_He noticed that Jazz had yet to add the red and blue stripes to his chestplate and he settled for a thoughtful expression, picking up one of the air brushes the saboteur had on the small table in front of him. It’s light in his hands and the acrid smell of paint burned his olfactory senses, but only slightly._

_“May I?”_

_Jazz nodded without hesitation. “Of course.”_

_Prowl doesn’t need to look at a blueprint; he knew the design by memory. He’d spent vorns tracing it with his fingers once upon a time and so he simply called upon one of those incidents and let his hands work from memory. First the blue stripe, long and light blue. Then the two thin red ones near the outer edges, thin and contouring. He added in darker hues of both colors, to add the little shading details he knew Jazz was so fond of. In what seemed like no time at all, the paintjob is finished and all that’s left is to wait for the paint to dry._

_It took him a while to notice that Jazz was looking at him, visor dimmed as it always was when he was deep in thought. Used to the scrutiny, Prowl stepped back and tilted his helm to one side. “What is it?”_

_Jazz’s lips twisted into a soft smile. “Everyone always said you were a drone. But in the end, you’re the normalest one of all. Settling down. Building a family, stepping out of routine.” He sighed, “I can’t believe how much time’s passed.”_

_Prowl noticed a wistful edge to his voice, as if he’s unsure of whether the news made him happy or sad. He knew the deflection of his first question was intentional and a big part of the tactician’s tac net wanted to delve into it, to pick and prod for the reasons spurring Jazz to take on such a dangerous task._

_He asked gently, a subtle prod at the barrier the saboteur always has around him but Jazz’s razor-sharp wit caught on and he shook his head. “I can’t, Prowler. I need to do this.”_

_“No, you don’t.” Prowl admonished. “You don’t have to do anything. We’re not at war anymore; you don’t have to make sacrifices for everybody else’s sake anymore.”_

_Jazz shrugged. “Maybe not. But I’m not doing this for everybody else.”_

_“For you?”_

_The saboteur was silent for a moment, then he huffed softly. “C’mere.” He stepped forth and gently cupped the back of Prowl’s helm, bringing their foreheads together with a soft plink. “Live for both of us, yeah?”_

_“You’re not gonna die.” The words came out a little more forceful than he wanted them to but he can’t find it in himself to regret it. He didn’t want Jazz walking into the plan with his mind set on actually dying; it was all going to be an act, a charade played to save people who did not know they needed to be saved.  
_

_Jazz grinned, “Course not. Wouldn’t be living up to my reputation if I was.”  
_

_Prowl couldn’t help but smile softly. “Someday, Jazz. You’ll find your reason.” His voice lowered, EM field flickering sadly for a moment. “I’m sorry it wasn’t me.”_

_Prowl knew throwing in subtle nods at their faulted courtship was not the brightest play on his part; it was unfair to both of them and often brought more regret than nostalgia But he was here to say a proper farewell; after the mission was over, Prowl didn’t know when he’d see Jazz again and the thought made him a tiny bit reckless._

_Jazz took it all in stride, surprising them both. “Oh Prowler.” He said. “ Our timing was just off, y’know? But something tells me even if we had made it work, I wouldn’t have been what you were looking for. You’re too good. You deserve someone like the Twins. Pit spawns they may be but they’re honest and they balance you out.” His hands went down to entwine with the Praxian’s, holding them firmly in his grasp as if in doing so he could transmit all the emotions broiling in his Spark._

_“If I was a different bot, less damaged, I probably would’ve been able to give you what you need.”_

_“And what do I need, Jazz?”_

_A brief pause and then the saboteur replied with a poise Prowl feared had been long extinguished. “A partner with confidence in who he is. Im not. You want a bond, Prowler, maybe even bitlets or wards in the future. I don’t know if I do and the last thing I want is to force you to choose between me and the future you want.”_

_The words hurt. But Prowl found that even though his lips parted to retort, nothing came out. He couldn’t find a way to argue the logic in Jazz’s words and he hates how the confusion in his Spark is very slowly chipped away. There it was, the one piece of the complicated puzzle that was their relationship that was in need of._

_It wasn’t closure, not completely, but it was enough to make it easier for Prowl to step away and let the saboteur do his part._

_Neither is sure how long they stood there, hands clasped and exvents occasionally breaking the silence that hung over them like a cloud. But they both knew that when Ratchet returned, his grumbling shattering the silence, and their hands let go of one another, that there was one less regret they’d have to worry about from then on out._

_Now all that was left was the mission._

_~~~_

Someone had once asked Jazz how he wanted to die.

It hadn’t been a philosophical question and it certainly hadn’t merited any deeper meaning since it’d been asked by a Decepticon interrogator, who’d juggled a serrated blade and a bottle of acid in each hand as the presented options.

But it’d made Jazz think; even as he grinned through the pain and spouted off witty remarks, he couldn’t help but think.

He once thought death was something not meant for him. Because how many times had he been used and twisted and broken, only to have his Spark find some way to gutter back to life while he nursed a broken frame that refused to comply. In the gutters of Polyhex, stained with the transfluid of mechs he couldn’t name, with his own Energon, with the grime of the backwater alleys he’d called home for the majority of his life. During the war on broken medical cots and interrogation slabs.

It was always something that seemed so surreal to him. But when he’d finally come to a conclusion, he decided that he wanted a peaceful death. A guttered Spark during recharge, age-related burnout over a cup of Enex...

But now, as he stood to the side of the stage, visor flickering as he listened to Optimus’ bold and innovative words and glanced around the assembled audience, he decided that maybe a dynamic death would do. He felt the adrenaline in his lines, how it burned the fuel in his vitals and made his Spark race with anticipation.

He wanted to go out with a bang.

The irony in the words almost made him smile. But he never broke his façade, listening and observing. All senses were heightened to their maximum input and his reflexes were ready to respond at any given time; the bounty hunter could appear anywhere, with any weapon of his choosing and Jazz was prepared to respond with an astrosecond’s notice.

He cast a side glance at the stage, noticing how Megatron’s hovering like a concerned bonded and he couldn’t help but feel amused.

But that was when it happened.

It started with a ripple in the crowd. A bot larger than the bots around him rose to his full height, displaying the large blue wings of a carrier shuttle frame, head turned down as he regarded something unnoticeable with a curious air. But then a look of horror crossed his face and he stumbled back, a scream that’s just barely noticeable over the din of the crowd and the reverberating bass of the Prime’s voice on the speakers. A couple bots around him stopped their musings to glance back and before long, their screams joined together and the sound of confusion and fear crescendoing easily rose to block everything out. Jazz took a step forward around the same time one of Prowl’s officers did and it’s only because of his placement that the sudden barrage of purple ion bullets didn’t slice into his frame.

Pandemonium erupted.

Megatron had Optimus flat on the floor, his bulk covering the Prime while his helm lifted to gauge the situation with narrowed scarlet optics. Prowl was screaming out orders, Riot was herding people away and other officers were heading to where the bullets were coming from. Jazz expected to see an organic, maybe one of those slimy Asyions or a Povian. But when he finally caught sight of a hand-held rifle, it wasn’t a squishy lifeform holding onto the firing end.

It was a femme. Sleek, dark paneled, with purple optics.

A Cybertronian

Jazz cursed. Something was wrong. Everything was wrong. He used his quick reflexes to make his way on stage, to where the smoking frame of Megatron was riddled with dents and apertures near his fortified back as he protected Optimus with his frame.

“You can’t stay here!” Jazz screamed over the chaos, pushing Megatron to his feet. It was an effort he was able to accomplish only because the former warlord complied, hunched down as he sought to prevent any damage from landing on the blue and red convoy. A stray shot landed on Optimus during the first few breems of the attack and it shattered his right knee strut. Without even thinking twice, Jazz found his way underneath the arm of Optimus’ injured side to offer support and together, all three of them limped to the safety of the stage.

A few steps away from safety, Jazz heard the distinct sound of transformations. It wasn’t an odd sound, definitely not one uncommon as aerial frames transformed and rocketed to the safety of the balconies above or over the stampeding bots. But perhaps it’s the twisting feeling in his chassis or maybe just a dumb stray of intuition...whatever it was, it caused Jazz to glance over the red arm of Optimus and he caught sight of the femme morphing into a sleek sniper rifle, and the weapon she’d been firing went through a transformation of its own, erupting into the form of a dark paneled mech with searing purple optics.

He caught the transformed rifle and with dexterity that spoke of eons of companionship, aimed the scope of his rifle at them seamlessly. The red dot appeared in Optimus’s back, the bright neon color standing out among the convoy’s warm natural coloring.

Jazz expected time to stop. Maybe even for some happy memory influx to flash before his optics. But he didn’t notice a lapse in time as he used all of his strength to push Optimus out of the way, yelling for them both to get down as he struggled to right himself with the extra momentum.

The trigger was pulled and the rifle was fired. And the bullet went its natural path, tearing through the air without so much as a sound.

And it landed a mark.

Jazz was propelled forward with enough force to take his breath away and when he crashed against the back wall of the stage, he felt his reinforced chassis absorb the kinetic energy and no such thing as a dent appears even as his paint is scratched and ruined.

But as he fell onto the floor, he started to feel the pain, a deep searing pain near his spinal strut that spread to his chassis and before long, there was a fire burning in his chest. He couldn’t move his lower body and he was screaming so hard his vocalizer nearly cut out, but he had movement of his arms and they struggled to pry at the reinforced metal of his front in an effort to make the pain just stop.

But it didn’t and it kept on burning brighter and brighter until all Jazz could taste was ozone and _oh Primus_ he swore his glossa was melting in his mouth. All he saw were stars and suns, vortexes and swirling galaxies, the plasma like acid in his mouth.

He’d swallowed the sun and it’s burning him up. Everything went wrong. He knew he’d been hit but in the wrong place. His chest was reinforced to withstand damage, to protect him as he played a part in this charade to protect a world that didn’t seem too keen on protecting him back. But his back didn’t have any protection because he wasn’t supposed to take a hit there...at all.

He’d been shot in the back.

A chill swept through him. He...was dying.

For real.

He wasn’t supposed to be, though.

Jazz expected to feel fear as the shooting subsided, as the screams dwindled to gasps and sobs and the world began to have its edges tinged with black. But he didn’t feel anything. Pain, sure, but nothing...else.

And when he saw the blur of red and white that he knew was Ratchet and felt familiar hands touch and prod and attempt to heal, he didn’t feel relief.

There’s only a brief buzz, probably Ratchet saying something, and then he’s pulled into a pool of merciful darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, the 'major character death' tag doesn't come into effect yet. But I got ya for a minute, didn't I? :D


	11. On Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A world finds itself turned on its head and revelations are made.

_“We are masters of the_

_unsaid words, but_

_slaves of those we let_

_slip out.”_

                                                                                      

—Winston Churchill

 

 

 

“What happened?” The words are slurred, laced with static and sounded about as smooth as a rusted crowbar.

Ratchet very nearly dropped the datapad he’d been reading, whipping around to stare at the unmoving lump that’d made residence in his medical for the past few orns. The small clinic in Rodion was quiet, mostly uneventful with few cases ever seeing the inside of his operating theater. Once upon a time, Ratchet would have cursed the inactivity but after a war that lasted too long and the recent turn of events, he couldn’t help but feel relieved.

A quiet clinic turned out to be the perfect place to hide a dead mech.

Technically speaking.

But for all the time Ratchet had spent with his hands inside of the black and white saboteur, welding and soldering and cauterizing, and all but manually forcing the guttering Spark back from the brink of death, there was little relief in his field as he watched that blue visor flicker on to a warm blue glow and still lips moved to form small ‘ohs’ of discomfort as a full system reboot slowly took place.

“You were shot,” Ratchet said once he deemed the saboteur lucid enough. “In the back. You nearly died.” He grimaced slightly at the last word.

Jazz’s lips twisted into a frown. “Oh.” A shaky hand rose up to cradle the side of his helm, fingers rubbing at the black metal tentatively as they felt the dents and cosmetic scratches that had yet to be healed. As he felt the warmth underneath his fingertips and he regained more and more mobility in his limbs, the saboteur allowed himself to feel a small sense of respite.

He’d survived.

Again.

And for the first time in a long while, it had actual meaning.

Recalling the events of the past orn, he whipped his helm to look at the medic, optics wide behind his visor. “Ratchet? What about the mission?”

Silence met his words and for a moment, Jazz was worried his vocalizer was damaged and he’d warbled some incoherent static. But a quick internal check revealed everything was in working order. So, he tried again, words a little slower, and that only seemed to make the silent medic narrow his optics even further.

“Ratch?” Jazz asked, going for familiarity.

A sigh sounded, heavy and forced, and the red and white medic finally replied. “The mission...was a success.” The last word had a sarcastic huff to it, as if it’s validity was up for debate. “Optimus and Megatron are fine. Prowl had a couple officers gunned down and...well, you’re dead.”

Jazz gaped for a moment before laughing, wincing when the action jostled some of his injuries. “Dead? For real?”

Ratchet sniffed, “I let some other medic take the fall for the first few breems of your treatment; dove in at the last second, blamed the damage on the other medic’s inadequacy and proclaimed you dead not too long ago. Bluestreak’s planning your funeral.” The last bit was said a little melancholier and Jazz couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit of regret at having to leave so many acquaintances in the dark about the operation. But Bluestreak was a fighter and he had Thundercracker with him; he wasn’t alone and he would get through this.

Hopefully.

It took the saboteur a moment to realize Ratchet was saying more and he tuned back in, listening as he retold how his apparent death had made global news. News outlets had several anchors debating whether the shot, footage of which had somehow been leaked, had pierced his spark chamber or his spinal strut. Some commemorated him, as a courtesy because they spoke in generic militaristic terms, while others scorned him. The reactions were mixed but one thing was universal: bots were scared.

An attack on the Prime. It was surreal to some and many feared that it would be start of another revolution, a war that would once more topple everything they’d sought to create.

Jazz couldn’t help but feel sympathetic towards Prowl and Optimus, who were no doubt struggling to deal with the fallout. But he understood that this was expected; whoever had been orchestrating the threats against Pion and his established influence would most certainly find themselves taken back by the new chain of events. Chances that they’d retaliate violently were low and Prowl had assumed that they would perhaps take a brief hiatus to figure things out; that was where Jazz came in.

According to Ratchet, Argyrus had been absent from the Assembly for two days following the attack and when he’d returned, he claimed he’d been trying to quell a riot in the lower levels of Uraya. But intel told that there was no riot and the lack of flair and flamboyance from the green mech told that his relevance to the situation was bigger than previously anticipated. He was most definitely hiding something.

Which meant that Jazz’s mission was more important than ever.

Whatever had gone wrong before was irrelevant; all that the saboteur had to focus on was making sure he pulled off his end of the deal. His Spark pulsed painfully for a moment as his processor brought up memories of exactly what had gone wrong but he shook his helm slightly and pushed it to the back of his mind; he had to focus.

Sighing softly, Jazz shuttered his optics and stared at Ratchet intently, hoping his gratitude for the medic’s quick actions was prevalent in his EM field.

“Thanks for the save, Ratch.”

Ratchet said nothing, fully engrossed in a datapad he’d managed to subspace. His dexterous red fingers were tapping rather forcefully at the screen, each passing klik interrupted only by the tap-tap-tap of metal on glass.

A small blossom of worry crawled into Jazz’s chassis, which hurt like the Pit for some reason, and he frowned. Ratchet...was mad. He’d known the medic long enough to know the difference between his usual façade of annoyance and the dark cloud that formed over him when he was actually pissed off. He refused to meet Jazz’s gaze and kept muttering angrily under his breath, culminating in his cursing and all but throwing the datapad on a small table next to the cot housing the saboteur.

Jazz flinched at the sound of it landing, lips pursed slightly. “Ratchet?”

“I can’t even look at you.” And it was true. Arms crossed and helm bowed, the white and red mech had his entire body showing only it’s profile in the saboteur’s direction and Jazz hated how easy it was the see the medic’s trembling jaw at this angle.

Was it possible Ratchet had actually been close to losing him? Or was it about more than his reputation...and he actually cared? Cared enough that he’d felt the weight of Jazz’s near-death experience on his shoulders and carried it even after the saboteur had braved the doorstep of the Afterspark?

It made little sense but for a brief moment, Jazz let himself be awed.

“Didn’t know you cared.” He said softly, hands clasping over his abdomen.

The sound of hissing hydraulics was the only thing Jazz received in warning before the aforementioned datapad was grabbed off the table and flung against a cabinet with enough force to dent the metal furniture and make the thin tablet shatter into a thousand tiny little pieces.

Immediately, Jazz’s battle computer whirred to life and despite the soreness in his frame, he inched back along the length of the cot, one arm raised defensively. The other was wrapped around his chestplate, hand lingering over the burning hot metal that rested over his Spark chamber.

_Protect._

Jazz blinked in confusion as the command blinked over his HUD, bright and commanding, snapping him briefly out of his instinctive reaction to Ratchet’s outburst. Riveting his gaze towards the medic, he saw those blue optics narrowed into slits but his body posture indicated he wasn’t keen on making any further movements, so the saboteur used the brief moment to look at his coding.

But he hadn’t even gotten into the base layer before Ratchet was shaking his helm, hands balled into fists at his side. “This is a game to you, isn’t it?”

_Game?_

Jazz grimaced and shook his helm. “Dunno what you’re talking about, mech.”

Something about the saboteur’s tone made Ratchet’s EM field flare with anger, rolling off him in waves and snapping against the black and white mech with the force of a typhoon. Helm on the verge of a processor ache, Jazz forced himself into a sitting position, the hand on his chest never moving.

Red hands reached out to help but the saboteur batted them away, knowing the act was more instinctive than nurturing. Ratchet’s engine gave a small rev of anger but he backed off, hovering just slightly so that he wasn’t invading the saboteur’s space but could swoop in if his aid was actually needed. Four painful nanokliks later, Jazz was finally sitting, legs resting over the edge while his free hand gripped the edge of the cot to support himself.

He knew he probably looked as horrible as he felt; his back was killing him and a bit of static crept into his vision every now and then, chased away by a few forceful shuttering of his optics. His chest burned under his fingers but he couldn’t find it in him to drop his hand; a small exploration of his fingers over his chassis told him he had a small cable attached to the bottom of his chestplate, beneath the bumper of his altmode. It led to a small battery, an external power source currently resting next to the cot.

Damn. Had he really been so close to kicking the can? If Ratchet had halted all cosmetic repairs and left him plugged into a battery...then his systems must’ve really been slagged. Suddenly, he didn’t feel so good about quipping smartly in the face of Ratchet’s wrath.

“Did you know?” Ratchet’s question is brief, curt, to the point. There’s no warmth in his voice, only that sharp clinical tone he used when interrogating relapsed Syk users and incompetent patients. But Jazz can detect a bit of hope beneath it all and that only served to confuse the black and white mech even more.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He repeated, hoping his bewilderment was evident in his words. The paroxysm of fear in his vitals returned, gnawing at his insides with a vengeance.

Another growl, this one harsher and its only Ratchet’s sheer self-restraint that kept him from lunging towards the saboteur. “Damn you,” the medic seethed.

Jazz stared him down, his own uncertainty of the situation giving him the bravado to hold the gaze that had once made even Megatron cower. The saboteur tried to search for an indicator, any little tic, that would reveal to him where the medic’s anger was coming from. But he saw nothing but contempt in those blue optics and Jazz mechanically prepared to defend himself; he’d seen that look on enough bots during his lifetime to know what to expect and most importantly, how to deal with it. Comebacks and retorts teetered on the tip of his glossa, lips pursed into a thin line and his hand holding onto the edge of the cot gripped a little tighter.

Ratchet stared at Jazz with a stern glare, blue optics narrowed to hot white slits and upper lip curled in the beginning of a sneer. “You slag-eating egotistical aft-head…” Before Jazz could even open his mouth to retort, Ratchet grabbed onto the protruding collar of his chassis and leaned in, making those blue optics behind the visor widen in pure shock.

“Ratchet--!”

“Did you know?"

“Know what--!?”

Ratchet snarled and his grip tightened, not enough to damage but certainly enough to make the saboteur yip in pain. “You knew you were _sparked_ , weren’t you? Was this whole charade your bright way of terminating without dealing with any of those ridiculous moral obligations of such a _crucial fragging decision_?”

Jazz stiffened, visor flaring pure white for a moment before it began to flicker; his gaze slowly fell to his welded chassis, digits hovering over the black and white dented metal with something akin to horror.

It was then that Ratchet’s rage took on something different, something that the saboteur could taste on his glossa, bitter and sour. Something that Jazz hated more than anything else in this world.

Disgusted pity.

“You poor sod. You had no idea, did you?”

Jazz was silent for a moment but then he was scrambling to get onto his pedes, lack of coordination and unsynchronized gyros be damned, and his hands were clawing at his chassis as if he intended to rip the metal away and take a look. But Ratchet’s sure hands were there to halt him, his gruff voice stern but gentle as he forced the saboteur to focus on his venting and just relax.

The saboteur struggled for a few moments before he responded to the medical stimulus, and even as his hysteria died down, the anxiety and fear remained in every stiff strut and uneasy ventilation that escaped his frame. His fingers remained poised over the chamber housing his life force, gaze alternating between the red and white mech in front of him and the welded metal of his chestplate. There was genuine aghast in his field and his visor rebooted several times, as if in doing so the situation might disappear. But it didn’t and after the third or so reboot, Jazz let out a shaky sigh and hung his helm in quiet defeat.

“How...far along?” Jazz asked softly, staring at the palms of his hands.

Ratchet slowly let go of the saboteur’s arms, hands hovering and expression grim. “About six quartexes but there was some damage that I had to fix so I can’t tell for sure. But it’s far enough along that symptoms would’ve been popping up, even if the...newspark wasn’t visible during a deep-spark scan.” He paused, thinking. “Have you been feeling ill at all in the past orns? Nausea, Spark-pain, fatigue?”

“Enex.”

The medic frowned, “What?”

“Enex.” Jazz repeated, not glancing up. His fingers curled slightly, tips slowly digging into his palms. “I...I tried to drink at Blue and TC’s bonding party...but it tasted so bad. Sour and cloying. But I ate half of the concessions they had...even the rust sticks, and Primus knows I hate those slaggin’ things...” His words were spoken with a slight smile in his voice but a deep-seated sadness rolled off of him, all but forcing Ratchet to retreat his EM field for fear of accidentally contracting the aftereffects.

This certainly wasn’t what the medic had been expecting. A part of him had anticipated the saboteur to remember something at this point in time, do some quick math and recall some illicit rendezvous or romantic endeavor, but the blanket of melancholy remained and all the mech did apart from stare at his hands was nod his head absently.

“I never removed my gestation chamber, y’know? I...never thought I’d actually end up using it.”

Ratchet took a deep breath, the action relieving some of the pressure in his frame but doing little to quell his emotions. He was still angry because Primus knows that working for days on end trying to keep a fragile wisp of life online had nearly taken a millennium off of his life, but that anger was directed more towards the circumstances now that it was clear that the saboteur had little to do with the near loss of life that had been on the verge of occurring.

Frame creaking slightly, Ratchet pulled up a chair and sat down, elbows resting on his knees and hands clasped in front of him. “Look,” he began, doing his best to be the friend the saboteur no doubt desperately needed at the moment. “I’m not mad that you’re sparked. Hell, I’d be ecstatic if you’d’ve told me before all of this. But...I am pissed off that it took you getting your aft kissed by the Unmaker for you to even realize it. I mean, Jazz...this isn’t some disease or condition that you can magically heal. This is a life.”

The words made the saboteur flinch slightly and Ratchet felt his anger slowly ebb away. Lips twisting uncertainly, Ratchet asked. “Do you know who the sire is?”

That made the saboteur react. Visor flaring brightly, he looked up and vehemently shook his head. “No.”

Translation: _Yes._

“Have you spark merged with anyone recently?”

_“No.”_

“I can tell. The newspark’s unusually small for its age; it’s been siphoning off more than it should be from your spark, probably why you’ve been feeling most of the symptoms to the extreme.” Ratchet paused, mulling the situation over. “That external battery is the only thing that kept it from guttering out when you were under. The ideal thing would’ve been to have some other healthy bot offer up some of their Spark’s energy but an artificial energy source worked fine. For now, at least.”

Jazz stiffened. “What makes you think I want to keep it?” The words were spoken without emotion, cold and cynical. Ratchet couldn’t help but recall how often the saboteur had brought that particular tone out during interrogations, murmuring sweet nothings as he sliced and diced and all but tore unwilling Decepticon prisoners apart. Any other bot would’ve been intimidated, scared even, but the former CMO had seen enough of the bad parts of the war to be immune. So, he simply glared back at the former TIC, façade stern.

“It’s not my choice to make,” he agreed, voice crisp. “But I’d like to imagine that you’re capable of contemplating this situation over before proceeding ahead. Recklessness got you into this and I’ll be damned sure that you get your aft out of this responsibly.”

“But the mission—!”

Ratchet slammed his palm down onto his thigh, “Forget the fragging mission for one parsec, you slaggin’ idiot!”

Jazz was undeterred. “The mission is the only thing that matters!” he yelled back, the last glyph laced with static. “It’s the only thing that will ever matter.”

“You don’t mean that.”

The look the saboteur leveled at the medic was stony. “I’ve nearly died twice trying to get all of this sorted out,” he retorted. “I’ve had my body rebuilt one too many times and any chance I had for a normal life was sacrificed so that I could do this one thing. This--” a jerk of his thumb towards his chestplate “—isn’t going to stop me.”

Ratchet opened his mouth to retaliate.

“—But it will help me.”

The whoosh of air that escaped the medic’s parted lips was audible and only overpowered by the very clear bafflement now residing in Ratchet’s EM field. “What?”

Jazz swallowed roughly, both hands kneading the edge of the cot. “The mission has me listed as a retainer in Argyrus’ estate. Low level, incognito if I do my job right. All I have to do is show up; if I come along, sparked, then my story is strengthened. I’ll just be a carrier, riffraff cast aside looking for sanctuary.”

Ratchet stuttered in disbelief. “Jazz--!”

“I know what I’m doing, Ratch.”

The pet name seemed to only make the medic even angrier. “I sincerely doubt it! Jazz, please, _listen_. This isn’t some...modification or accessory you can put on and take off for a mission. This is your creation. It’s a living being that you are going to have to take responsibility for. As a medical professional, I cannot in good conscience, all you to continue with the mission in this condition.”

Jazz smiled and the act itself was enough to make Ratchet trail off, optics narrowing as they focused on the waning blue glow of the saboteur’s visor. “You’re a good friend, Ratchet. The best, honestly. But you’ve gotta understand that there’s no time. There is no other way. Even if I stay and someone else goes, it will end in failure. And I can’t stay...because I’m dead, remember? Blue buried me. Few bots mourned me. This...isn’t the kind of life I would want a bitlet of mine to be born into. I’d never do something that would put me or anyone else in danger, Ratchet. But this is something I have to do.”

A moment of pause. Then Ratchet asked, “Do you intend to keep it?” The unspoken offer hung between them like a cloud, neither willingly voicing it.

“I’m...not sure.”

“Dammit, Jazz...”

“Hey,” the saboteur said, leaning forward slightly and placing a hand over the medic’s. “Your job was to keep me alive. And you did that. Your part of the mission is over; just leave it up to me, yeah?”

Ratchet shook his helm. “If I were sane, I would tell Prowl everything.”

Jazz’s mouth twitched at the corner, as if he couldn’t decide whether to grin or frown. “Perhaps. But you know that wouldn’t solve anything.”

A sigh. “Yeah. You stubborn aft. I know that very well.” Ratchet scowled. “I can’t even imagine how things can go wrong. If you suffer complications, I won’t be there to help and Primus knows that mech won’t have a decent licensed medic on his hands. And these things create complications; what if your carrier coding runs rampant and you compromise yourself? And let’s not even mention the process of caring for—.”

“Ratch?”

“What?!”

“You’re rambling.”

“...Oh.”

They both stared at each other for a moment, Jazz placating and Ratchet in internal turmoil. The medic knew this was wrong; all of it. He shouldn’t be agreeing to this, letting a fresh carrier proceed into the unknown with a creation the way. He shouldn’t agree to keep the carrier’s condition a secret. But he knew that if this were any other mech, his words would have sway. But this was Jazz. Even during the war, the saboteur had been a wild card; unpredictable, unwilling to be controlled.

This time wasn’t any different.

Ratchet could do nothing but resign himself to the weight of the situation. “You idiot. You stupid idiot.” He sighed. “Alright then. But promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

He knew it was a useless request. Jazz never promised anyone anything.

But the saboteur smiled softly at him, the tiny upwards tilt of his lips almost as mesmerizing as the words that left his mouth. “I promise.”

 

~~~

**[Connection established]**

 

 

 

> _**Ratchet:** It’s done._
> 
> _**Prowl:** Good. I assume you’ve helped him undergo the necessary preparations? _
> 
> _**Ratchet:** Full frame upgrade. He won’t even recognize himself even if he looked in a mirror. Well, mostly. Slagger insisted on keeping the visor. He left already. If my calculations are right, he’s probably already there._
> 
> _**Prowl:** Noted. You did good work, Ratchet._
> 
> _**Ratchet:** ..._
> 
> _**Prowl:** Ratchet?_
> 
> _**Ratchet:** Yeah, I’m here. A patient walked in. I have to go._
> 
> _**Prowl:** Understood. We’ll be in contact._
> 
> _**Ratchet:** Sure, sure. _

**[Connection terminated]**

 

In the dark recess of his office, Ratchet held his helm in his hands, optics shuttered tightly. He fought the wave of emotional turmoil rising up inside him, aided by the fact that he’d openly lied to the one bot that probably had the power to call this whole thing off.

Prowl’d probably be hurt, no doubt, to hear that his former flame had gone and gotten himself sparked but he’d have stopped the idiot from putting himself and his creation in danger. Maybe even talked some sense into him.

But Ratchet had held his glossa, lying to get himself out of the conversation for fear that he’d let his conscience win and he’d spill everything.

He’d had given Jazz an inhibitor, a tiny little thing that the saboteur could put on his Spark chamber’s glass housing that had the potential to terminate peacefully; it’d siphon off the newspark’s access to Jazz’s Spark, slowly draining until it guttered. Not entirely painless but effective.

Jazz had taken it and promised to use it. Ratchet remembered how nonchalant his voice was, so different from the scared bot that’d he’d had to calm down once he unloaded the news. Ratchet liked to imagine it was an act, a farce to reassure him that everything would be fine...well, as fine as it went when it came to undercover operations.

Primus below, he was a fool.

A soft-sparked fool who’d probably end up regretting his choice sooner or later.

His helm began to throb as another processor ache, the second in a single orn, slowly crept up on him. With a huff and a grunt, the medic reached into his desk’s drawer and pulled out a glowing pink drink; Praxian high grade, a gift he’d originally meant for Bluestreak for his bonding but which Ratchet had kept out of sheer selfishness. He popped it open and poured himself a serving in a dirty old cube on his desk’s surface. The acidic smell assaulted his olfactory senses but he welcomed it, the burn almost as gratifying as the numbness that spread through him as he downed the cool liquid.

The ache in his helm rescinded, but only briefly.

He eyed the bottle, briefly calculating how many cubes he could wring from the thin long flask. With a shrug, he poured himself another drink.

Two would easily make the pain go away.

But there wasn’t enough alcohol in the glass container to make the guilt gnawing at the edges of his Spark ever truly disappear.

 

 

~~~

 

**[A COUPLE ORNS LATER...]**

Rumble glanced at the screen, optics wide behind his visor. Around him, sat his siblings, all glued to the glyphs and images dancing across the large monitor screen before them. Around them were a myriad of tinier ones, each fitted with special jacks so their unique frames could plug in and let them work their magic.

But work was the last thing on their minds.

It’d been a while since Soundwave had announced that they were moving; it’d been abrupt and sudden, no warning given to any as their host mech rented out their apartment and all but ordered them to pack only the essentials. All of the other symbionts had been casting ugly glares in his direction when they realized the dump Soundwave had moved them into across the planet, all knowing that whatever their host mech was planning was partly due to the confrontation between him and Jazz outside of Wycom’s.

Rumble hadn’t apologized and he wasn’t planning to. Successful or not, the encounter had shown them all what Soundwave had been desperately trying to avoid. The saboteur cared about him and Soundwave also cared for him. That they were idiots was another thing entirely. Rumble wasn’t about to apologize for another mech’s idiocy. And yes, he was more than willing to use that word in his host mech’s presence because that’s what he was. A huge slagging idiot.

The words were repeated in Rumble’s head like a mantra, his belly twisting into painful knots as he watched the standard news reel broadcast all but throw his aspirations out the window, shattering them into a million tiny little pieces.

He felt Laserbeak’s sorrow, Buzzsaw’s shock and Frenzy’s disbelief.

Only Ravage echoed the pain in his Spark, her scarlet optics sad and ears dropped back in a mixture of disbelief and pain as she understood the implications of what she was seeing. Not just for all of Cybertron, but for their host mech.

The idea of breaking the news to him...

Large steps sounded behind the door, echoing through the hallway and Laserbeak scrambled to turn the monitor off, her brothers and sister scurrying off to their respective duties. Ravage curled into the corner, pretending to be asleep while the twins pulled up their gamepads and pretended to be engrossed in some weird video game argument. Buzzsaw transformed and simply sat on the counter, humming to make it seem like he was in recharge.

Soundwave’s EM field was calm when he entered the room but for a telepathic communications expert…nothing truly escaped his attention. Not even his symbionts' tenseness and the overall atmosphere of the room. It was far too quiet.

And he could feel the odd concoction of emotions from all of them leaking through the cracks of the blocks they’d put up on their side of the bond, sadness and pain and anger that made him more than a little wary. As distracted as he was with his own work, he never was too preoccupied to not notice the way his symbionts were acting.

Something was going on and he intended to find out.

“Laserbeak, desist.” His words were aimed at the weakest of his symbionts, the one he knew would easily break under his quiet interrogations. Clever as she may be, she never had the Spark to lie in his face and it showed in the way her block faltered and the telepath caught traces of anxious fear from her. The red and black aerial physically squawked in surprise, wings flapping and her optics widening.

Buzzsaw chirped innocently on top of the desk, a poorly veiled attempt at calming down his panicking twin. Soundwave’s optics narrowed behind his visor, EM field flickering with annoyance. He wasn’t in the mood to be toyed with and it irked him that even though his cassettes understood the gravity of their situation, they still insisted on pulling mischiefs. There was no physical indicator anything had been tampered with but he remained firm and wary, reaching for Laserbeak through the bond.

She cowered as he began to chip away at the barrier, crooning in pain and attempting to hide behind one of her wings. All of her siblings felt the truth loitering in her mind, eager to be divulged and as her host mech worked down her defenses, her will to stand firm waned dramatically.

But then Frenzy stood up, and Ravage took her place beside him, tail swishing through the air. “Boss,” she said softly, her voice so much smoother than anything Soundwave had heard from her in eons. “You need to sit down for this.”

“Query: For what?” He asked, now truly confused.

All of his symbionts shared a sad, almost tentative glance among then and then Laserbeak chirped sadly. “I’ll play it,” she said, all panic completely absent from her frame as she hopped towards the remote that lay haphazardly on the desk. With a peck of her beak, the monitor was turned back on and bright white light flooded the dimly lit room, a myriad of screams and sirens echoing before it was all replaced by the smooth soprano of the reporter.

 _“---We’re coming to you live from Iacon; Amethyst has just explained to you that a recent assassination attempt on the Prime took place orns and we’ve received news about the incident from the medics involved. According to medical reports and several eye witness accounts, Jazz of Polyhex managed to react at the last moment that the kill shot was fired and took the hit, saving the Prime’s life.”_ A brief pause and a look of sadness crossed the femme’s face, an obvious façade meant to play towards the audiences Sparks. _“Sadly, we’ve received reports that the former Autobot’s wounds proved to be fatal and he’s been declared offline. A memorial was held in the former Autobot’s honor not long after, led by Praxian Bluestreak, where thousands of mechs and femmes flocked to pay their respect to the bot that singlehandedly gave his life to keep the head of our government alive and well._

_We have not been able to get any information out of the Enforcers involved regarding the shooter responsible for this atrocity but speculations revolve around unhappy Nuetrals. As for the suspects, they’ve been rumored to be bounty hunters that refuse to give comments on who hired them. Does this have something to do with the recent explosions that took place in Uraya? Nobody knows._

_But we will keep on top of the situation and let the public know of any new information that comes to light...”_

“Turn it off.”

Laserbeak sniffed, turning to stare at the ebony feline that had spoken. “What?”

“Off!” Ravage hissed, platelets on her back rising along her arched spinal strut. Immediately, the aerial complied, turning to look at the frozen host mech through coolant tear stained optics. Silence dominated the tiny room, the hum of the other working monitors the only thing keeping them from utter stillness. Soundwave was frozen where had stood, visor bright and back stiff and erect.

There was no teeking his EM field or even feeling anything from his end of the bond. For a brief moment, the entire world stood still for the host mech’s symbionts; it was painful, still and seemed to drag on for eternity.

But then the flood came.

It started as a trickle, a tiny rivulet of pain that made all the symbionts tense before the wave of hurt and pain and agony and **anger** swept over them with enough force to take their breaths away. Rumble felt it most of all; that silent scream echoing in Soundwave’s mind, that spoke of broken words traded under the flickering light of a dirty alleyway.

Curling into himself, Rumble wanted it to stop. It hurt too much. But he knew that it would never stop.

Not now.

As Soundwave turned on his heels and all but slammed his way out of the room, the symbionts were left in awkward silence, broken only by Laserbeak’s soft trill. “Where is he going?”

Ravage was the one who answered. “Iacon.” She turned to regard her siblings over the cusp of her shoulder. “We’re all going back to Iacon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, this is quite a mess, isn't it?
> 
> Next chapter will have the mission finally underway. :)


	12. Quietus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which time stops for no one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter inbound. I apologize in advance.

_“I think I made_

_you up inside_

_my head.”_

                                                                                      

—Sylvia Plath

 

 

Jazz narrowed his optics behind his visor, back hunched and all senses alert and ready for even the tiniest of noises. His hands were spread at his sides, fingers thrumming through the air to get a feel of the particles surrounding him; he listened, and his pedes were focused on monitoring the trembles echoing through the floor.

It was deathly silent and yet he could smell a trap brewing in the shadows.

For a moment, he thought he was alone. But then a small scraping sound from above caught his attention and he stiffened slightly, all senses zeroing in on it. A smile played on his lips as he took a step forward, dentae parted in a predatory grin as he kept his gaze glued forward.

As he moved, he sensed the presence above moving along with him and he marveled at how much noise the observer from above was making. Each scrape echoed off the ornate hallway, every careless footstep sending little tremors through the walls and floor.

Before the saboteur could right himself and look up, he heard the hissing hydraulics of tensing joints and then the next thing he knew, something small and heavy collided with his shoulders and he was sent sprawling onto the ground. Tiny hands grabbed at his and though he could have easily whipped the tiny attacker onto his back and pinned him in less than a klik, Jazz let himself be wrestled into submission with a rather dramatic pout.

Rebooting his visor, he stared up at the pair of gold optics staring him down and he couldn’t help but feel amused at the triumph surrounding the tiny blue on top of him.

“Got you!” A cheerful voice chirped, a small noseplate bumping against his in a display of one-sided familiarity before it’s owner leaned back to sit on his haunches. Jazz rolled his optics at the tiny bot straddling his flat chassis, an easy smile playing on his lips.

“So, you did,” he said good-naturedly, one hand running over the blue paint transfers on his upper body. “But only because I let you, Radiance.”

The youngling huffed in mock anger, crossing his arms over his chestplate. “You heard me while I was crawling through the vents, didn’t you?”

“Yep.” Jazz grinned as he popped the last syllable, taking pleasure in seeing those fair faceplates morph into something that would have been dangerous if on a bigger target. But on the youngling above him, it only looked amusing.

Radiance scoffed, “I knew this was too easy.” He crawled off of the silver grey mech and dusted himself off, EM field radiating distress and annoyance. But none of it was aimed towards the older mech. “I should’ve stuck to the ground instead.”

“Hey,” Jazz said softly, rising to his knees and placing a placating hand on the tiny blue bot’s shoulder. When those round gold optics refused to look up at him, the saboteur gently gripped the youngling’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and urged him to meet his gaze. He saw disappointment in those burning optics and though he knew it went against his position to offer any kind of emotional support to the youngling, the saboteur found himself unable to ignore him.

Call it pity, empathy or simply a spur of compassion. Jazz called it a lapse in judgment.

“Not everyone starts out being an awesome ninja,” he explained calmly. “It takes time to hone those skills. Practice, and you’ll do great.” He knew he should’ve added on a few tidbits about being responsible and not jumping every single thing that moved but it wasn’t his job. And besides, Radiance was a clever kid. He’d figure it out once he’d pounced on the wrong bot in the future. Experience was the best teacher and all.

When he’d bid farewell to the tiny bot and made his way to the courier quarters through the winding hallways of the elaborate manor, the first-person Jazz saw was the large orange frame of the only friend he had made during his stay at the estate. Odeon, a gentle Spark who had taken Jazz under his proverbial wing since his arrival and taught him the ropes on how to survive the day to day activities of the esteemed Representative’s estate. The property had the same basic layout that Pion’s had but it was grander, better kept and there were enough personnel to keep the various levels tidy and running smoothly.

A rotating schedule was posted up in the kitchens, alerting every bot of their duties for the day; the work varied from simple cleaning to more complicated errands like helping the so-called lords of the house with their own routines. Sorting the datapads in the grand library Argyrus had was Jazz’s favorite occupation but he’d only gotten it once or twice before being submitted to basic maintenance. Nowadays he was always spending his time cleaning out the seemingly endless array of rooms in the large manor, folding berth sheets, polishing priceless sculptures and touching up any cosmetic detailing the silver alloy walls warranted. It wasn’t difficult work but it was quite repetitive and Jazz often had to sneak outside to remind himself to think of something other than cleaning.

This was the difficult part of undercover operations. Actually fitting in. It was easy to get lost in the complicated routine of it all but Odeon had made sure Jazz was able to keep his job during his initial trial run.

And he’d also made sure the saboteur could continue on with his mission.

Not that he knew it, of course. He smiled that big dopey grin whenever Jazz sauntered into the room, kind and gentle, always asking how his orn was going and offering help even when it wasn’t needed. A couple of the other couriers prodded at Jazz, telling him it was impolite to string along a mech like that.

But the saboteur didn’t mind. Love-struck mechs were always easier to sway and it wasn’t like he was stupid enough to return his feelings. He’d learned that lesson the hard way, thank you very much.

“Meister,” Odeon said, rising from his bunk to greet the saboteur as he walked into the room. His blue optics roved over the dark grey mech’s arms and torso, taking heed of the blue paint transfers and he smiled knowingly. “Ambushed by Radiance again, I see?”

“You have no idea.” Jazz replied, forcing himself to smile. Even if he wasn’t particularly fond of the little bot, it would do him no good to speak ill of Argyrus’ only living heir. “I swear he’s made it his life’s purpose to bring about my downfall.”

Odeon laughed. “The others like to say it’s initiation. Radiance has a tendency to target the new employees. Aster says it really helps weed out those with the nerves of steel required to handle this job.”

Jazz shrugged. “Guess I passed?”

“That’s a decision best left up to Aster. One which has a better chance of being positive if you hurry cleaning up so we can get to the east wing.”

East wing...that was the guest quarters. Immediately, Jazz’s fatigue disappeared and his smile became a little more genuine. Breezing past his fellow courier, Jazz made his way to his bunk a few rows down and pulled out a tiny box from beneath the bottom berth. It was an ugly thing, scratched and missing some oil in its hinges, but it held everything that Jazz had technically owned when he’d appeared at the foot of the estate’s gates. The guards had laughed at it, one of them even going as far as snatching it out of the saboteur’s hands and rummaging through it with those large blunt fingers of his. He’d pulled out the mismatched polishing cloths, the tins of cheap wax and only halted when he pulled out the two gleaming credit bars from the box’s depths, subspacing them with a twinkle in his optics.

Jazz had acted timid, reminding himself that a meek bot looking for employment wasn’t capable of sauntering up to the mech and snapping his neck and just barely managing to ask where he’d to go to inquire about his employment interview. The offending guard threw the box back at him and told him to head to the back, where he’d come across a path that led to the kitchen entrances. It’s where the riffraff entered, he’d sneered. Not through the main gate.

Jazz grimaced at the memory, pulling out one of those same mismatched cloths and, adding a bit of solvent, proceeded to wipe away the offending blue paint marring his dark grey finish. It felt odd, tracing the contours and edges of a frame he’d only had for a decaorn and yet already knew like the back of his servo. He’d given up his protruding chassis, eliminating the Earth-style headlights he’d grown so fond of and replacing it with a flatter chestplate and unmarked bumper. His shoulder tires were smaller, and every part of his frame had all of his wartime modifications removed entirely. He felt smaller, was less protected, but at the very least still managed to keep most of his strength and agility. His visor was made of expensive reinforced crystal and its bright blue color hopefully brought attention away from his slightly familiar helm shape; his audial horns were an integral part of his frame so he’d been loath to give them up and had only a few kibble here and there removed and replaced. Overall, he was unrecognizable. At least, when it came to the bots surrounding him; Jazz had learned a long time ago that the estate’s location in a sparsely populated county made for a niche where the problems of the rest of the planet hardly made its way past the front gates.

The servants’ whole world, began and ended with their lord and the estate itself. Argyrus was rarely seen and when he was, he tended to be locked up in his main office, his rich and oily voice muffled as he yelled and bickered to some unknown entity. Odeon had mentioned in passing that the mech’s position as Representative had been weighing on him, as if that would be enough to excuse the moments when anger was turned onto an unfortunate courier that’d found himself at the wrong place and wrong time.

Pushing down the anger such thoughts brought upon him, Jazz swiped his cloth down his armor a couple more times before throwing back into the box and rising to follow the orange mech waiting for him. Odeon’s optics brightened a bit as they made their way towards their destination, the journey made slightly more enjoyable by the orange bot’s gentle recounting of his morning cycle’s activities. Boring and mundane but Jazz listened intently, knowing no detail was too small or irrelevant to ignore. He added in a couple expressions of surprise and amusement when necessary and it was with Odeon laughing and Jazz smiling that they found themselves entering through the huge ornate doors that made up the portion of the large house dedicated entirely to guests.

 In the middle of the circular receiving room, beneath a rather flashy chandelier of imported crystals, stood the pearl white frame of Argyrus’ personal retainer and subsequent head of the household staff: Aster. Now, Jazz had never spoken directly to the mech during his stay, their interactions limited to the occasional barked order and cursory head nod, but the saboteur couldn’t help but find himself intrigued. Aster’s faceplates were always pinched, as if he’d smelled something horrible and was being polite in not voicing it, and his stiff posture and crossed arms eluded a commanding aura that even Jazz couldn’t help but feel awed by. No-nonsense and strict, he was all but a legend among the household staff.

“Aster,” Odeon said, dipping his helm respectfully. “I’ve brought Meister as you’ve instructed.”

The white mech’s scarlet optics narrowed slightly as he regarded Jazz’s appearance, but he showed no outward tic that indicated how he felt about him. “Meister. You’re the new servant mech that arrived the past decaorn, correct?”

Jazz internally winced at the title bestowed upon him but nodded in affirmation. “Yes, sir. I sent in my application before—”

A lithe hand rose up in the air, cutting the saboteur off midsentence. “How you got here is irrelevant,” Aster said stiffly. “You’re here. That’s all that matters.” He clasped his hands in front of him. “Odeon speaks highly of you and while I am not one who allows rumors to dictate how I run my staff, I find myself in a bit of a rut. A good portion of my preferred staff quit not but an orn ago and I am in desperate need of some assistance.”

Jazz’s optics widened slightly behind his visor. “I’d be pleased to offer any assistance that I can,” he said politely.

“Excellent.” Aster took a step to the side and gestured to the grand room around them, hand extended towards the hallway that lay opposite of them. From his position, Jazz could see a myriad of gold crusted doors, all of them gleaming and shining in the lighting.

“Those are the guest quarters, each roughly the size of a small apartment and bearing the amenities of such. Now, there are a total of 120 berths. Each one needs to have the sheets changed and properly folded; each room needs to have the washracks cleaned and the bottles of cleanser need to be exchanged for the new brand that was shipped in during the night cycle. Every frame, sculpture and knob needs to be polished. It’d be preferable if you completed your task before this orn was up but I wouldn’t hold it against you if you worked into the next. Just have it finished before the orn after the next.”

Jazz stilled, “Everything? Just between the two of us?” He hated how much his voice shook but it was hard to stifle his surprise at the amount of work thrust upon them.

Aster’s gaze was cold. “Yes.”

Before the saboteur could think of retorting, Odeon stepped forward and smiled politely. “It will be done,” he said earnestly.

“Good. You may take all of your routine breaks during your scheduled times but please don’t doddle. My lord requires these quarters to be ready at a moment’s notice.”

Interesting. “Are any guests scheduled to arrive?”

Aster narrowed his optics. “Does it matter? They need to be cleaned. And they will be cleaned; understood?”

“Yes.” Jazz meekly replied, dipping his helm in both respect and apology. No need to go stirring up trouble when there wasn’t trouble to be had. After showing them the cleaning supplies, Aster proceeded to offer them a small demonstration in one of the rooms of how he wanted everything to be done. It seemed excessive to the saboteur but knowing just who they were working for certainly made the extravagance have a bit more meaning. Aster was a stiff but decent instructor; as the head of all the staff, it fell to him to make sure everyone was organized and doing their job correctly. The occupation came with its usual bought of stress and his tight pinched face was just an unfortunate side effect. But nothing weighed him down in his demonstration and it was almost mesmerizing to watch the lithe white mech move about the room like a dancer, leaving nothing but gleaming perfection in his wake.

Odeon looked on with interest; apparently, he’d seen the head work his magic enough times to only be appreciative of it. In less than a couple Earth hours, the guest room they’d wandered into was finished. Jazz took it all in, going over the tiny recordings he’d made through his visor to recount the manner in which Aster wanted everything done. Feeling less overwhelmed, he nodded his understanding to the white mech, who eventually left the two of them to deal with the work on their own.

Jazz opted to split up the work and get everything done in half the time but the orange mech gently shook his head. “Working together may be slower,” he’d said, “but it will be done correctly.”

The saboteur knew Odeon was lying. It was just an excuse to follow him around and absorb into that idle chatter he was so fond of. But Jazz knew that it’d be out of character for Meister to demand working on his own and he wasn’t about to go ostracizing the only connection he’d made here. So, he smiled knowingly and followed Odeon into the next guest bedroom, both of them tackling the master berth first. Jazz removed the sheets and Odeon put on the fresh new ones, the both of them eventually working in tandem to fold all the edges as Aster had instructed them. They went to the washracks next, Jazz carefully scrubbing the floors while Odeon tended to the walls and replaced the cleansers. Finally, polishing came to the forefront and with rags and sweet-smelling waxing solutions, they’d set about making everything glow in a way that would have made even Sunstreaker jealous. It took them longer than Aster, unsurprisingly, but they were making decent time and Jazz found himself being lulled by the repetitive notion of it all.

Of course, the peaceful silence between them didn’t last.

“You’re pretty quiet, aren’t you?” Odeon’s deep voice broke through the stillness in the air and Jazz rhythm of folding the sheets faltered slightly but he smiled and shrugged.

“There’s not much for me to talk about.”

Odeon followed his movements from the other side of the berth, blunt digits unusually dexterous as he patted the thin material into place, leaving not so much as a wrinkle in his wake. “Nobody’s life is ever as dull as they make it out to be,” Odeon retorted gently. “Especially not when it ends up leading you to an occupation like this.”

Jazz hated personal questions. Even when there wasn’t an important mission to be upheld, he still despised it when bots tried to pick and prod at the barrier he’d put up around himself. It was like nobody respected anybot’s privacy anymore and their history and secrets were nothing more than trinkets to be bought with saccharine words and free drinks. But he had had to remind himself that this was Odeon; his intentions weren’t entirely pure but he wasn’t aiming to intrude either, his voice held the tiniest bit of hesitation, as if he was allowing Jazz the opportunity to back off if need be.

They still had quite a bit of rooms to take care of and Jazz knew that in the wake of the deception he was currently unfurling, a bit of honesty would go a long way. So, he shrugged and replied with as much vague honesty he could get away with. “I was a drifter for most of my life. Sparked; my carrier was a racer and my sire was a painter. Carrier died in a racing accident and my sire followed not long after due to Spark failure.”

“Oh.” Odeon’s brows furrowed and his EM field adopted a melancholy tone. “I’m sorry.”

Jazz shrugged again. It was becoming quite a common thing for him nowadays. “Nah, don’t be. They were good mechs and I was old enough to be on my own when they passed. Took on odd jobs to keep myself on my feet.” If killing and stealing counted as jobs, but no way was he about to divulge anything that would make others suspicious of him. “That’s pretty much it.”

Odeon frowned. “Really?” He didn’t seem convinced. Picking up a pillow and rearranging it, he seemed to mull over his next question and Jazz silently continued working, waiting for the next curveball the orange mech would throw at him.

It ended up being one he wasn’t quite expecting.

“What about...matters of the Spark?” A faint blush crept on the other bot’s face and Jazz couldn’t help but find it oddly endearing, given the orange mech’s size and all.

But the question made Jazz’s vitals burn and his Spark twisted in his chassis. Love affairs wasn’t something he liked talking about give his reputation and the botched courtship staining his personal history. But now...even if the saboteur hadn’t been aware of Odeon’s interest in him, the details of what little love his Spark had dabbled in were too painful to broach. Not to mention just how close to nailing Jazz’s number one reason for being fearful of such questions in the first place Odeon was.

Jazz had to tread carefully.

“I...never had any.”

It was difficult to ignore how hopeful Odeon’s face got. “None?” The orange mech echoed, genuine surprise in his tone. “But you’re so charming...”

Jazz huffed slightly, amused by the clumsy flattery. He wanted to laugh and agree, using jokes and humor to brush away the topic that had all but ruined his life. But he couldn’t find it in him to laugh; Spark giving a painful lurch, Jazz felt the memories and emotions he’d kept tightly sealed in the back of his mind come forth, washing away any traces of contentment he’d managed to hold gain in the past few orns.

“There was...a mech. I met him during a job. We worked together...and, we fell in love. I don’t really know how it happened, really. It just...did.”

Odeon surprised Jazz by smiling, gaze softening. “Love is like that.” He blinked, suddenly invested in Jazz’s recollection. “What happened with him?”

Jazz hoped he didn’t look as crestfallen as he felt. “He...fell in love with another mech. Two, actually. They were already bonded and they accepted him in to form a triad.” A pause. “I think he’s happier now. Much happier.”

“Do you miss him?”

The saboteur would have laughed if he wasn’t struggling to swallow the lump rising in his intake. “No. I mean, it’s selfish to wish someone away from happiness, isn’t it? So no, not really.”

“I’m sorry.” They finished with the berth and moved to the washracks, Jazz collecting the necessary cleaning supplies from the cart they were wheeling and leading the way into the ornate room. Wordlessly they began to clean, the sound of metal bristles scrubbing against stainless alloy the only reprieve in their momentary silence.

“Was there anyone else?” Odeon paused in his cleaning to look at Jazz over the cusp of his shoulder. Jazz, who was kneeling on the floor, paused.

“What?”

“A lover,” Odeon clarified, voice surprisingly steady.

The word made Jazz’s Spark twist painfully in his chest and he shook his head, mouth opening to vehemently deny the existence of another bot that had been capable of capturing his Spark. But no words came out and he snapped his mouth closed and looked away.

Was there? Of course, there was. But Jazz was unwilling to broach that particular can of worms, and just thinking about it took his breath away. But as he turned to regard the orange mech who was alternating between finishing his task and looking at him, Jazz was overcome with the irrational desire to simply share. Share the burden weighing him down, make someone else, even if unknowingly, help him carry the weight on his shoulders. Odeon wouldn’t like to hear somebody else had indulged in what Jazz would never give him, but he’d listen...cause he was just nice that way.

“There was another bot.” Jazz relented, wincing slightly. “A mech.”

A gentle hum was the orange mech’s response, an indication that he was listening and that Jazz should go on. So, the saboteur did.

“He was quiet and reserved, always thinking and rarely speaking. I used to hate him but something happened that...opened my optics, and I realized that he and I weren’t so different. We may have been on opposite sides about certain things but even then, our choices and decisions contained parallels that we were too hesitant to acknowledge.” Jazz swallowed painfully, staring at the brush in his hands and fighting the telltale prickles in his optics. “We hadn’t known each other, really known each other, for that long...but I legitimately thought he was someone I could love. But we took things too far, went too fast, and when I tried to talk to him about it he pushed me away and then I realized that there was nothing there. I’d made it all up in my head. So, I left...and here I am.”

Silence told Jazz that Odeon had stopped his own work and when his blue visor turned to regard the orange mech, the saboteur was surprised to see him kneeling a little ways from him, blue optics sad and concerned. “I’m sorry,” that gentle voice murmured. “Do you know what went wrong?”

So many things. “It was me,” Jazz replied, exposing an uneasy truth he’d been unwilling to voice since that fateful night. But it held weight for no one except himself and all Odeon could offer was a reassuring squeeze of his shoulder and a sad smile. It wasn’t much, certainly not enough to make the saboteur’s inner turmoil heal and disappear, but it made him feel a little less alone.

“Crosswire hides some Energon gummies under his bunk. Let’s finish with this...and we’ll raid his stores together. How does that sound?”

The impromptu mission is so childish it makes Jazz laugh at the folly of it. But his Spark warms and his mouth waters at the thought of indulging in sweets, even if he knows they won’t be nearly as good as he expects them to be. It’d been so long since he’d given in to his cravings and the thought of being able to roll a jelly between his dentae and glossa spurs him on and he’s wiping at his optics and grinning in determination. Mood lightening, the two bots get back to their respective duties and a good long while of hard work passes before they find themselves in the last guestroom, tired and aching, but satisfied.

They work in a communal silence, folding and cleaning and polishing until that room is also left in the same beautiful state as the previous others. Jazz is careful not to disturb their work as he picks up their cleaning supplies, loading them onto the cart and pushing it outside into the hall and closing the door behind him. Odeon was waiting outside with two cubes in his hands, one of which he handed to the tired saboteur who drank it all in three ravenous gulps.

“Thanks.”

Odeon smiled over the rim of his cube. “You’re very welcome, Meister."

Jazz is too tired to do anything but nod in reply, gently sliding down to sit on the floor. His feet were killing him and every strut in his back was aching as if Bruticus himself had walked all over him. The cube did little to sate his hunger and he resisted the urge to snatch Odeon’s out of his grasp. He knows exactly what’s going on and he internally cursed internally.

“Meister?” Odeon’s voice sounded faraway and Jazz knew right away, even without looking at the red alert on his HUD, that something was wrong.

“Sorry,” Jazz said, rising shakily to his feet. “I’m not feeling too good.”

“Do you need a medic?”

Any other time Jazz would have disagreed but he knew that there was no evading the inevitable. So, allowing the other bot to hold him up, he nodded. “Yeah.”

It’s surprising how a big mech like Odeon can manage to be so graceful. Within moments, all their cleaning supplies are put in their proper place and Jazz found himself being carried down a rather nice-looking hallway into a portion of the manor that he immediately recognizes. He tried to tell Odeon to avoid public areas but he knew that it was a useless endeavor; the orange mech wouldn’t do anything that would jeopardize Meister’s employment, after all.

It took but a few moments to arrive at their destination; Jazz has to shutter his optics a couple times when they entered the bright room that smelled vaguely of antiseptic and distilled Energon. A silver femme stood up from a small desk in the back, sauntering towards them despite the alarm in the orange mech’s field.

Her green cat-like eyes were bright and welcoming, sharp tipped fingers clasped delicately in front of her as she came to greet them. “Well, well, what do we have here?” She had a nasally soprano, as if she were an organic stuck with a perpetual cold.

“He isn’t feeling well,” Odeon said, following her unspoken instructions to set Jazz down on a small cot in the room. It was cold and made Jazz shiver slightly but he let himself be laid there, smiling as best as he could in Odeon’s direction to calm his nerves.

The mech was undeterred in his worry. “Is he alright, Jespa?”

The doctor tilted her helm as she lay her hands over Jazz’s vital points, sensitive fingers picking up his pulse and internal temperature as they rested over his chassis. With a knowing glint in her optics and a smile, she nodded. “His Spark beat’s regular and his systems aren’t in danger of shutting down. From what I can tell he’s just a little tired.” She leaned forward and gave an experimental sniff and hummed. “I assume Aster had you two working on cleaning up the guest rooms?”

Jazz huffed, “Yeah...”

“I figured.” She gently clasped one of Jazz’s servos between both of hers. “Odeon, dear, would you mind leaving him behind for a bit? Not to trouble you or anything but I’d like to run a couple tests to make sure this isn’t something that will be ailing our new arrival during his stay with us.”

Odeon seemed unsure but Jazz offered him a reassuring nod and smile of his own. “I’ll be fine,” he said, regretting ever having brought the mech into this. Hopefully he wouldn’t find himself with a large looming orange paneled shadow in the future.

It took a moment but Odeon eventually relented. “Alright. I have to go let Aster know that we’ve finished and perform a few deliveries but you’re in good hands. Jespa is the absolute best.”

Jazz nodded, “I feel as safe as I can be. But can you--?”

Blue optics glimmer with amusement. “I won’t tell Aster about this. He doesn’t have to know.”

Feeling a weight lifting off his shoulders, Jazz’s grin is as genuine as can be. “Thank you.”

When the two of them were left in silence, Jespa let go of Jazz’s hand and the good-natured glimmer in her EM field was replaced with cold resolution. “Is it acting up again?”

The saboteur grimaced, turning his helm to look anywhere but in those knowing green optics. “Yeah.”

A sigh, then the femme said. “Have you come to a conclusion yet? I still have the inhibitor. We can take care of this before it becomes a problem.” Despite the coldness in her tone, there’s no malice. The femme had been in these kinds of situations more often than she cared to admit, something she’d divulged the first time Jazz had ever come to see her. Any of the staff employed under Argyrus were forced to undergo a basic physical before being cleared for employment and Jazz had been no exception. He’d been sitting on this very cot, story at the ready and teetering on the tip of his glossa but the femme hadn’t done anything but look at him before she’d come to a startling accurate conclusion in a matter of kliks.

The femme had smiled, “You’re sparked, aren’t you?”

Jazz had tilted his helm, “Excuse me?”

She smiled even wider, amusement flickering in her field. She’d proceed to give him a scan, set down the scanner, walked over to her computer monitor and typed in a few things before stepping aside to show the screen. It’d been a basic scan of Jazz’s spark, the usual blue hue of the Spark inside the crystal chamber flickering healthily. But all attention had gone to the tiny silvery golden dot on the scan, too small to be a malformation but too big to be an anomaly.

The small tendril connecting the two together had all but confirmed what it was.

Jespa had sighed, “I’d say…Less than six quartexes. Tiny little thing. Something tells me you haven’t been merging or interfacing regularly have you?”

“I was—“

“Raped? Oh, yes, I’ve heard that story a thousand times.” There had been a warning tone in her voice and Jazz’d tensed, fingers digging into the edge of the cot forcefully enough to leave indentations. He’d blamed carrier protocols, those instincts that made him tense and prepare for attacks when even the slightest err was detected. It threw him off kilter for a moment but a quick rewrite of his coding had allowed him to relax enough to smile back.

“You calling me a liar?”

Jespa had scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “A well trained one but a liar nonetheless.” She pointed at the diagram, optics sharp. “You Spark shows no signs of recent trauma. Your crystal is intact. If you were truly taken advantage of, there’d be signs. But there aren’t. Maybe you’ve fallen out with the sire, your reasons really don’t inspire me. This spark was created consensually.” Her voice lowered, “I’ve seen younglings come in with the same story. And you’re showcasing none of those signs. Your carrier protocols are in full swing and you’ve done nothing to combat them until now.”

An uneasy silence had passed between them, the tension thick in the air and all but cloying on the saboteur’s glossa. But he’d remained silent, his only movement being the kneading of his fingers and the occasional shuffling of hisfeet. Finally, Jespa sighed, breaking the silence.

“I’m not going to report you. But you need to be honest with me.” She looked at him sternly. “Do you intend to keep this new spark?”

Jazz’s breath had hitched, vents stuttering as his processor mulled over the question. HIs optics went down to his chassis, to the tiny life housed inside. It’d prodded at his own Spark as if questioning the sudden tension in his Spark with inquisitive little nudges. Instincts, Ratchet had told him, because at this stage it was still too young to understand words. 

It.

He’d cringed, turning his helm away as the single glyph repeated itself over and over in his mind. How cruel of him to reassure the tiny life of its existence when he couldn’t bear to refer to it any other way. He should’ve let Ratchet terminate—

A sharp pain had passed through his Spark, a twinge of horror and confusion enveloping his orb before he could finish the thought. For a moment, he thought it’d come from the newspark but a quick scan told him it was confused, but not scared.

The fear…had been all him.

But why?

“Do you know who the sire is?” Jespa had asked gently, appearing in his peripheral vision with a cube of Energon. A quick scan had told him additives were added to the mix and he’d grimaced, visor flashing angrily up towards the femme holding it.

“I didn’t answer you.”

Jespa had smiled. “Call it medical intuition but your field tells me everything I need to know. You’re not disgusted nor fearful of him, like most unwilling carriers are. You care about the newspark.”

“He?”

Jespa had replied, “Polyhexian tradition. My sire was an avid believer.” She’d blinked, “I’ve been around carriers long enough to know when they’re good sparks.”

Jazz had huffed, shaking his helm. “I hope so...”

“We’re all looking for a second chance in this world, Meister. No one is judging you.” She’d offered the cube once more, patiently waiting until unsteady black hands reached for the offered drink and the carrier chugged it down in ravenous gulps. He’d shuddered at the aftertaste, muttering.

“I don’t know who the sire is,” Jazz had lied softly, still wincing at the taste. Or maybe it’s the bittersweet flavor of the fib on his glossa, permeating his tongue until every word tastes like misery. “But I have a fairly good idea of who it is.”

“Oh?”

“We parted on horrible terms. I truly believed we had something but it turned out I was just deluding myself.” He’d played with the cube in his hands, visor wistful. “I never wanted creations. But—I know what it’s like not to be wanted. And to make the newspark go through something like that…I can’t.” He’d grimaced, “But I don’t know...”

Jespa had smiled. It’d been a curt twitch of her lips, really, as methodical as a medic who related to her patients on a strictly business-like level. But it’d warmed Jazz inside and he couldn’t help but return the gesture, albeit a little more warmly; he had a feeling he and Jespa were going to get along swell.

“Active duty requires you to be at full health. But I’m sure we can find something for you to do.” She’d paused, “I say you have a decorn to make your final choice before your physical condition worsens so do try to come in her beforehand. Understand?”

Jazz had hesitated. “You’re...not going to throw me out?”

“Oh Primus, no. A fair share of the household staff have come in bearing younglings and those have grown up to serve the lord of this house quite well. We don’t make it a reputation to throw away expecting carriers. You can still work, regardless.”

A weight lifted off Jazz’s shoulders, a sliver of hope returning; there was hope for his mission...and hope for him, too. “Thank you.”

“Good. Now run along and make yourself useful. I’m sure you can find someone willing to give you a rundown of the place. Preferably before Aster comes in and ruins your experience. And remember, a decaorn.”

Jazz had apparently forgotten and Jespa was not happy. Not that he could blame her; he’d been kicking himself for his irresponsibility all the way to her medical office. 

“Let me guess; hunger, pain and fatigue?”

The saboteur added, “And emotionality.”

Jespa couldn’t help but smile. “What happened? Someone steal your thermal blanket in the servants’ quarters again?”

“How the frag do you know that?”

“I’m the on-site doctor of the estate. I hear everything. And my sources tell me you were crying in the morning cycle because you were cold for most of the night cycle.”

The saboteur frowned. “I wasn’t crying.” Oh, he’d been bawling, but he wasn’t about to divulge that tidbit of information. It’d probably been Odeon who’d told her since he was the one who’d found Jazz in the first place; not a great first meeting but when were they really? And it’s not like he was aiming to keep the friendship forever; he was there to infiltrate their home, to find the dirty secrets and topple whatever plan was brewing within these walls.

He couldn’t afford to care.

A warm hand placed itself over Jazz’s chassis, comforting but clinical. “I need your decision.”

Jazz stared up at those green optics, completely at a loss. He knew the right answer was yes; yes to terminating so he could continue unperturbed, without the weight of an unknown future holding him back or the guilt of what-if’s and has-beens making every step feel like a leap through the Pits of the Unmaker. But Jazz knew, ever since he’d been seen Jespa for the first time, that he wasn’t going to make the right decision. And it wasn’t a wrong decision either.

It was his.

Perhaps it was a stupid one; after all, he was a screw-up. He couldn’t hold onto the love of his best friend, the mere acceptance of a bot he truly believed could have been the one, or even the favor of whatever cosmic entity up above that was looking at him stumble and fall like some marionette puppet slowly losing its strings. He’d be a horrible creator, another one of those bots whose lack of care resulted in the creation of an innocence they’d only taint and distort.

Or maybe he wouldn’t. He’d be loving and kind; his hands, which had once been used to kill would nurture and create. He’d protect his creation from the darkness of the world, teach them to be strong and see them create a future worth living for. They’d be loved, adored and would never doubt. Their best friends wouldn’t be the bottom of an empty Enex cube and their first love would be dynamic and exciting, and if their Sparks were broken, they’d pick themselves back up because he’d taught them to be strong.

Jazz would never be arrogant enough to say he’s a good bot. Because he’s not. He’s not good or bad; he simply is. But perhaps this could be the start of something good, that something that he’d been waiting for ever since the war ended. That catalyst that would incite a different perspective that’s so different from the one that has him seeing the world as something rotten and unforgiving.

He expected to feel regret when he answered, maybe some anxiety. But when he nods and says, “I want to keep the newspark,” he feels something else flash through his Spark. It’s not the saccharine sweetness of happiness nor the bitterness of regret.

It’s something light and airy, reminding him of fine wax and a distinctive metallic undertone that’d become his favorite flavor.

Hope.

~~~

 

Under the cover of darkness, a lone figure slithered through the streets, a flash of navy blue and bright vermillion that shone like stars beneath the flickering light of a street lamp. It’s steps are heavy and powerful, alerting unsuspecting bystanders of a presence that demanded fear and attention; but it brushes past them without so much as acknowledging them and it soon becomes clear the figure has a destination set in their mind.

Eventually they emerge from the shadows into the warm glow of the Iaconian landscape, where the smell of ozone, burnt rubber and smog permeates the air as traffic and pedestrians patter across the paved alloy like ants. A few bump into him and they are of the few unfortunate ones that find themselves flat on their aft, a hissing feline or grimacing minibot planting a foot on their chests before releasing them and following the shadow they served with a fluidity that spoke of eons of companionship.

They leave the air tasting sour and acrimonious, of bitter deep-seated pain.

Before long, the figure stands in front of a cathedral, the very same one that he’d stepped foot inside not too long ago to see a mech he considered nothing more than an acquaintance promise himself to the other half of his spark. A pulsing golden Spark twists in pain behind a window of opaque glass and the navy-blue figure falters in the middle of the steps, one hand covered the tiny smudge that’s the only remnant of a life he’d once been so devoted to. But he vents heavily and regains his composure, red visor flashing with cold determination as he makes his way to the top and all but slams through the double doors like a heathen looking to anger the God the elaborate shrine was catering towards.

But his ends are not religious, nor political; it’s personal. He’s here to see someone that’s Energon and metal, someone whose schedule he’d spent the entire war conforming to memory, an old habit that’d translated to the peace time that currently dominated their planet. When the red and blue figure standing at the altar starts and looks back at him with wide blue optics, old battle routines sending his large frame into an instinctive battle-ready position, the blue figure’s Spark stutters and his optics narrow behind his scarlet visor.

There.

The other offers no resistance as he runs towards him, activating his thrusters mid-run and gaining enough momentum to make the punch dent metal. It’s not strong enough to send the former Autobot leader through the wall but it’s certainly enough to make him falter and he takes a few steps back and grabs onto the table behind him to hold himself up. When he rights himself and looks into Soundwave’s optics, the telepath expects there to be guilt or remorse but there is nothing in those blue depths other than pure confusion.

“Soundwave?” Optimus murmured, one hand nursing the caved portion of his battlemask. His EM field echoed his bewilderment and that’s the only thing that keeps Soundwave from throwing another hit. Reigning in his anger and hurt and pain, Soundwave clenched his hands into fists, ignoring the pain and struggled to keep his voice steady.

“Jazz.” He said simply, keen optics focusing in on the former Autobot’s reaction.

Optimus immediately stiffened, optics wide over the rim of his mask before a pain that’s a pitiful echo of the one tearing the telepath apart permeates his EM field. There’s a mixture of other emotions but Soundwave doesn’t care about the others; he just focused in on the single one that all but solidified the painful truth the telepath had been dreading.

He’d avoided Jazz’s apartment; logic dictated that would have been the ideal place to begin his search but Soundwave had been a coward, a pitiful excuse of the mech he’d been that allowed his own inner turmoil bar him from following the least complicated path to getting the answers he so desperately wanted. Coming to confront Optimus had been foolhardy; he could have been met with the two twins guarding him, perhaps even Megatron who despite his atheistic perspective could’ve found it in him to indulge in one of the spiritual inclinations of his bonded. There probably could’ve been reporters swarming the bot, taking videos and pictures that would’ve sent the telepath straight into prison.

But the cathedral is quiet, absent of its adherents or any other bot who believed in the religious aspect of their race. Only the gentle flicker of the fluorescent lights breaks the stillness of the large enclosure, mixing with the hum of Optimus’ systems and the heavy invents of the telepath.

“Jazz...is dead.” Optimus said softly.

Soundwave doesn’t listen to him. He knew it was true; he’d heard the news and still came. Because there was always the chance that intelligence was wrong, that maybe reporters and medics were wrong and he’d arrive to see the black and white mech running around somewhere. Maybe lounging in a bar, morose and blue over a cup of Enex. Perhaps even curled up in the arms of a temporary lover, paint transfers on his lithe frame, smelling of another bot’s ecstasy, lazy smile on his lips...not entirely content, but alive.

Soundwave doesn’t know what he would’ve done in either situation. Maybe he would’ve simply confirmed and left, leaving the bot to his own inner turmoil. Or perhaps he’d had gone in and dragged the saboteur out and back to his compartment and they’d have relieved that night where there had been nothing but them. Nothing but their names falling from each other’s lips, fingers curling into each other’s plating, frames moving in sync with reckless abandon.

The loss of the possibility is enough to drag Soundwave’s breath from his frame and though he knows that Cybertronians don’t breathe, he can’t help but feel like he’s drowning. He suddenly needs air, needs to feel the rush of oxygen in his systems to expel the weight of the grief pulling him under the black wave of agony in his processor.

It took him a moment to realize Optimus was speaking to him, optics worried and one hand reaching out as if to comfort. The confusion doesn’t leave the Prime’s field and it suddenly dawned on Soundwave as to why.

He didn’t know.

Nobody knew what happened in Uraya, of the events transpired that had the capability to turn two former enemies into something completely different. Temporary lovers perhaps because it’d been brief, but the word feels too sordid to describe the significant span of time and Soundwave is left reeling, for the second time in his life finding himself completely unsure.

“Apologies.” Soundwave intoned, intentionally deflecting the question.

Optimus frowned slightly, fingers rubbing the damaged plating. “It’s...alright. I just don’t understand. Did I do something to provoke you?”

 _Yes_ , Soundwave thought immediately. _You let Jazz die._

And even if he knew the words were incorrect, they were true in his Spark. Because Jazz’s devotion to the Prime was almost obsessive and that, coupled with his selflessness, had led Jazz to taking the bullet meant for him.

“I had no idea you were close.” Optimus said and the way he said it made it sound unclean, as if he were voicing some unspoken proclivity that had been meant to be kept secret. “I thought you’d fallen out, considering what happened in Uraya.”

There had been a falling out but it hadn’t been where everyone thought it had been. No, the fallout had been in Tarn, in that dirty little alley where Jazz had come up to him extending an olive branch and Soundwave had all but thrown it back in his face. The look of surprise then shock and inevitable anger had been seared into the telepath’s processor since it’d occurred, the phantom pain of the saboteur’s fist all but parting his face in two waking him up from recharge during the more sleepless night cycles. On the rare occasion he’d allowed himself to actually dream, the encounter had gone differently and he’d awoken to an empty berth and the ghostly sensation of a warm frame in his arms.

Soundwave was at a loss.

There was no talking himself out of this situation. So, he did the only thing he was good at, that which had gotten him out of so many unwelcome encounters among his own comrades during the war. Wordlessly he turned on his heels and all but sprinted out of the building. Perhaps the encounter would remain only between them and it certainly wouldn’t go down in history as the epic that so many Decepticons had imagined for themselves. But if Primus was watching, Soundwave knew he’d find nothing but amusement in the situation. Of the damning emotions swirling in Soundwave’s Spark, the perplexity of his keeper and the self-destructive tendencies of his dead creations.

When he arrived to his compartment, the light is on in the main room and he could see the silhouette of two mechs arguing, hands gesturing wildly between them as if they intended to give their words physical form. Soundwave doesn’t bother knocking; hacking the matrixpad, he enters the room to see broken glass and a rather large whole in the wall of what had once been his own living room. The two bots, he can’t remember their designations, stare at him with a mixture of residual anger and horror.

“What the frag--?!”

Soundwave stood in the doorway, visor dim and shoulders hunched. “Leave.” He said simply, the single glyph carrying the weight of his tiredness.

Unfortunately for his unruly tenants, they aren’t too keen on obeying. Fight forgotten, the one closest to Soundwave, a red grounder, launched himself with his fists bared and optics lit with a frenetic fire. The other blue bot followed suit, movements sloppy and oh so predictable; it was almost laughable to call their pathetic attempt an attack.

Battle systems didn’t even have the chance to fire up before Soundwave found himself moving. His large blue hand closed around the red mech’s face, tips digging into the alloy and making him writhe and scream. With a deft whirl, Soundwave threw the mech in his grasp against his blue companion, the resounding clang of metal on metal almost deafening as the two collapsed in the middle of the room in a pile of tangled limbs and whimpered moans.

“Get out.” Soundwave repeated, monotone deep and gravelly. Something in his tone forced the two bots to their feet and shaky and hurt, they managed to run around and collect the bare essentials before they were walking out the door, Rumble slamming the door in their faces.

His symbionts emerged from his chest compartment in a series of quiet transformations, Rumble and Frenzy each hugging one of his legs and the aerials all but forcing themselves onto his shoulders, faces pressed into his neck and face. Ravage sits on the floor beside him as he sinks to the floor, scarlet optics brimming with a sadness that Soundwave feels digging into the depths of his Spark. She eventually curls into his arms when he leans his back against a wall, a symbiont latched to every open space on his frame, and Soundwave holds them tightly against his body and allows the bond to open as wide as it can go.

He feels their pain and they feel his; there’s no balance, no faith or optimism to combat the depressive wave lapping at their souls. The pain is trapped in a circuit, spinning around them like a star and it burns their plating and scorches their very Sparks. For one bot, it would be unbearable but together, they find the will to endure.

It’s not the first time they’d relied on one another like this but it is the first time, since before the start of the war, that all symbionts had had to comfort their host mech to this degree. There’s no blame put on anybody. It’s just quiet suffering and endurance.

The morning cycle would be the start of a new day and they’d continue on with their lives and responsibilities and face the consequences of their decisions. But for now, they simply grieved.

 

~~~

 

Megatron glanced up from his datapad at the sound of the familiar footsteps in the hall outside of his berth chambers; the footfalls were familiar, heavy and paced, but they carried a new weight that the former warlord had never heard in a long while. When the matrixpad beeps and the door slides open, Megatron sees the familiar frame of his bonded, shoulders hunched and faceplates turned so that he could only see the profile of his helm.

Scarlet optics narrowed, Megatron asked. “Optimus?”

The Prime froze at the mention of his name but then he relented, slowly turning his helm to face the silver mech. It’s then that Megatron sees the damage and he’s on his feet in an instant, looming over the Prime and hands tilting his helm upwards with a gentleness unbecoming of a former gladiator.

The dent in the battlemask is deep and the grey alloy is stained with the dark hues of dried Energon; it’s almost impossible to not notice how the shape and indent grooves resemble a fist and the warlord’s engine gives a menacing growl.

“Who did this?” he asked, voice low and dangerous.

Optimus snapped his helm out of Megatron’s grasp, optics looking anywhere but his optics. “Noone.” His voice is tired and thick, as if even speaking were a burden.

“Optimus.” A warning note lingered in Megatron’s voice, one Optimus had all but been conditioned not to ignore. Heaving a sigh, the Prime relented.

“I tried to give a sermon to a nonbeliever.” He answered, a humorless smile in his speech. “Obviously, they weren’t pleased.” It’s an answer meant to draw a laugh from the former warlord but Optimus had apparently forgotten that any source of violence aimed at either them very rarely tickled the warlord’s funny bone. They stare each other down, Optimus placating and Megatron demanding and it eventually becomes too much for the both of them; Optimus gently pries himself from Megatron’s vicinity and begins to pace the room, slowly and methodically, helm turned upwards as if he were trying to reacquaint himself with the room he’d slept in ever since the war had ended and Cybertron had been restored.

Megatron stared at Optimus, helm tilted to one side as his crimson optics followed the pacing Prime throughout the room.

“Worried about something?” The silver mech asked, displaying a rare bout of patience as he tried to glean the answer to his previous question using another conversational angle.

Optimus paused for a moment, blue optics bright then glanced away. “You saw what happened.”

Ah. So, there was something bothering him. And judging by his evasiveness, Megatron knew it had something to do with that saboteur’s mission. Indulging the misdirected conversation, Megatron calmly retorted. “I saw a plan executed successfully.”

The Prime grimaced, a growl rumbling deep in his chassis. “One of my top lieutenants was killed on national broadcasts. And outlets have been doing nothing but marring his name.” He shook his helm in exasperation. “They’ve been pestering Prowl nonstop for days.”

“Because of his status as your former second in command?”

Optimus scoffed. “If only. Somehow it’s been leaked that he and Jazz had been former lovers and the tabloids have been having a field day.” A grimaced crossed his face, brief but dark. “The twins have been livid.”

Megatron smiled. “You think too much of the populace if you expected gratitude from them. Remember, Prime, they may follow us but they hate us.”

Optimus seethed silently, crossing his arms over his chest and sitting down on the edge of their shared berth. It bucked slightly under the convoy’s weight and Megatron resisted the urge to smirk; he held his glossa because for all that he goaded Optimus, there were moments where even he had to be careful. The Prime’s patience wasn’t limitless, especially not during peacetimes when survival depended on politics and social hierarchy neither of them were well versed in.

So Megatron settled for simply sitting, listening to his mate’s indignation.

“I’m tired.”

Megatron frowned, the words catching him off guard. They were loaded but the voice saying them lacked its usual ferocity and determination. They were steeped in exhaustion, deeper than physical, and lingering beneath the surfaces were traces of frustration.

“I’m tired of fighting. Tired of being unable to bring peace to our world. I promised my men they would never see war again...and yet I sent Jazz into the heart of danger and I don’t even know if he’s still alive because he hasn’t contacted us yet. I watched my friends mourn while I stood beside them and offered consolation knowing that I could ease their pain with a few simple words, lying to those who’d fought beside me for eons. We have two Decepticons AWOL, two bots we trusted who’d turned the rifle on my back for Primus knows what reason and both the bounty hunters we caught have refused to say a single fragging word. We’re no longer at war with each other...but yet we’re still fighting.”

Megatron’s face hardened, optics roving over the hunched form of the Prime sitting on the edge of the berth. “You’ll get used to it,” he said, tone offhand. But his EM field wrapped around Optimus’, coaxing it from its tightly wound position and soothing it with waves of reassurance. They were small, cryptic but they promised affection in spite of the changing world.

Optimus turned to regard him over his shoulder, optics unreadable and dented faceplates haggard. “Any news on Soundwave’s whereabouts?"

Odd change in conversation but Megatron shook his helm in response. “No.”

A brief pause and then Optimus glanced away. “Doesn’t that...worry you?”

Megatron shrugged. “He’s earned his freedom. And besides, he appraised me of a surveillance project he’d been outlining for quite some time now. I assume he’s simply pursuing the research potion of it.”

Optimus’s brows furrowed. “Why didn’t you petition to have him involved in Jazz’s mission?” It’s an honest question, genuine curiosity lingering in his tone.

The former warlord pursed his lips, mulling, then he shrugged again. “He was...unavailable. Besides, I’m pretty sure he isn’t as fond of me as most bots would be led to believe. You’ve seen the way Starscream looks at me during the Assembly meetings. Soundwave, I assume, feels the same way.” He frowned. “Why the sudden interest?”

A flicker of guilt in Optimus field popped up but it’s stifled as soon it appeared. “No reason.” And there’s a note of finality to his words. The conversation has ended and no matter how much Megatron prodded, the Prime would not open it up again.

Anger still broiled in Megatron’s circuits as he saw the red and blue convoy head into their shared washracks, the dim light of the room playing with the shadows in a manner that highlighted the dent in his mask. But he held his glossa.

There would be time for him to find the bot responsible for causing such damage. And when the former warlord got his hands on the bot, well, let it be said that not even Primus could save the stupid soul unfortunate enough to have made such a foolish mistake.


	13. Old And New Tricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz overhears something he shouldn't and pays the price for it. Meanwhile, Prowl struggles to get to the bottom of the assassination attempt that nearly cost them everything.

_“I’m not saying that I think_

_of you constantly._

_But I can’t deny the fact that_

_each time my mind wanders_

_it always finds some way_

_back to you.”_

                                                                                      

—sd.

 

Jazz thumbed through the assorted datapads on the shelf in front of him, pressure sensors taking in the smooth covers and the lack of cracks and faded glyphs on the spines. He’d never been one to read stuff, at least not for pleasure, so seeing so many books in one place didn’t necessarily move him as much as it should’ve.

But Jazz could appreciate quality when he saw it. He’d never held anything nice in his hands, before or during the war, so it was difficult not to notice how everything seemed to be immaculate in Argyrus’ estate. The perfection and shine the mech gave his frame translating to the place he called home; it made Jazz feel a little out of place, the irony not lost in his sentiment, but he couldn’t help but revel in it whenever he could.

Mesh cloth in hand, he wandered through the shelves of the large library, dusting off nonexistence dirt particles and reading every spine his fingers dragged over. Epics and poems and nonfiction anthologies, there was a little bit of everything and Jazz smiled as he recognized a couple titles, a few that he’d seen in Prowl’s personal library back when they’d cohabitated during the war. Prowl had never been too vocal about his reading material but he’d always had a thing for poetry; Praxian culture left little room for creative expression so had Jazz assumed that the vagueness and bright imagery intrigued the tactician more than anything.

Jazz had always indulged him even when he himself didn’t find the readings to be particularly interesting. Poetry had always been too flowery for the saboteur, too enigmatic. Give him a field report with simple syntax and straightforward instructions any orn. 

The library was unusually quiet, absent of the tutors and scholars that tended to roam the rows of bookcases looking for a wayward Radiance, who had the tendency to escape from their care to look for something more interesting to do. Apart from them and the other servants that took to cleaning, almost nobody roamed through the secluded annals of the library and Jazz couldn’t help but feel bad for the untouched datapads lining the walls. So much knowledge at one’s fingertips and yet it served no other purpose other than being the inside of pretty vessels adorning the already lavish mansion.

Jazz shook his head, snapping out of the sentimentality and focusing on getting his work done. He’d been doing that a lot, delving into his thoughts whenever he found himself standing still, and he hated not being able to do anything about it. Jespa had said it was normal, his frame was burning a lot more energy as it worked on the gestational process and the flow of energy that went to his primary cognitive functions was less than it normally should’ve been, allowing those functions to idle to conserve energy. He needed to drink a lot more Energon and his rations could not be changed unless he went to Aster and made his carrying state known.

Of course, Jazz had held off on that. He was new here, a tiny flickering dot on Aster’s radar, and the last thing he wanted was to be viewed as an inconvenience. Jespa had been giving him the extra rations he needed but she’d warned him her stores weren’t limitless and he’d eventually have to fess up; it was a subtle ultimatum, one Jazz found himself dreading almost as much as the side effects the doctor had warned him off.

Fatigue was apparently the least of his worries. His small frame and the apparent larger frametype of the newspark’s sire had him listed as a high-risk carrier which was a fancy term that basically promised a long and painful emergence once the time came for the bitlet to arrive. Now, Jazz was no stranger to pain but for all the amputations and painful surgeries that he’d suffered during the war, he was completely unfamiliar with the emergence process and that lack of knowledge made him wary.

But it held nothing to the promise of jumpstarting interface drives that were just around the corner. A newspark, once kindled, drew upon the Spark energy from both carrier and sire to reach full maturity. But if a sire was absent, the newspark would derive twice as much from the carrier, an act that wasn’t too dangerous so long as the carrier’s essence was healthy. Which, Jazz’s was.

But the nanites necessary to build the newspark’s protoform had to be obtained from an outside source, preferably through frequent transfluid donations. Unfortunately for Jazz, he didn’t have any options in that department. Briefly, his mind flashed momentarily to a mech with a bright orange paintjob and kind blue optics but he deleted that line of code as quickly as it appeared. One thing at a time, he chided himself softly. It did no good to jump to startling conclusions so early on in the process.

Carrying aside, he’d been struggling to sneak inside of Argyrus’ office, the first place he’d set his sights on to look for a clue could explain whatever the hell was going on. But it’d proven to be a much more difficult feat than he ever could’ve imagined. Simply because Argyrus never left its confines...and also because Aster was working him into the slagging ground. Jazz hadn’t contacted Prowl or Optimus yet and he knew that was something he’d have to rectify before things got seriously out of hand.

The sound of a large door creaking open and slamming shut nearly made Jazz jump out of his plating but he quickly composed himself and pressed against the bookshelf he’d been cleaning, visor dimming as he turned his face in the general direction of the noise. He could hear two sets of footsteps; one light and soft, almost noiseless. Then heavy but rapid footsteps sounded, echoing throughout the large room, and the sound of harsh muttering permeated the one tranquil air.

Jazz perked up as he heard the reedy crisp voice of Aster, followed by the telltale sound of those steps on the stairs that led up to the upper tier of the library. Maneuvering until he had a secluded area from where he could glimpse the new arrivals without being seen, Jazz stilled and waited for the bots to come into his view. On cue, the familiar green frame of Argyrus popped into perspective, his arms crossed and scarlet optics narrowed as he stared down at the tiny white frame of his retainer.

“Are you certain?” Jazz shivered as the rich and oily voice traveled through the air and caressed Jazz’s audials, unwelcome memories dancing through his processor.

“Yes, my lord.” Aster said, voice softer than anything Jazz had heard from him. The stiff mech was hunched slightly, helm dipped in obvious submission. “I received a message this morning. They told us we should be expecting them in a quartex.”

Argyrus went deathly still for a moment before he cursed, arms falling to his side as he began a short furtive pace. “Damn. She never gives me any warning; always ends up making me look like a fool...”

Jazz couldn’t see Aster’s face but he imagined that the white mech had on the most placating expression possible. “My lord...it’s not your fault. With your responsibilities of the Assembly, I’m sure they would forgive you for being distracted. And do not forget that you have been looking after Master Radiance for all this time.”

A huff and then Argyrus hummed. “True. That spawn of mine is proving to be more trouble than he’s worth.”

Aster said nothing.

“Well, no matter. They’re coming and we can’t change that fact. Seems we have no choice but to...entertain our guests. You know what to do, Aster. Don’t disappoint me.”

The white mech dipped his helm even further. “It will be done, my lord.” As Jazz watched the head of the household staff made his way back down the stairs and the sound of the door closing indicated his hasty exit. Now only Arygrus and Jazz were left in the library, the silence so heavy and thick in the air that the saboteur swore it was clogging up his vents. He didn’t dare move, fearful that even a single twitch of his fingers would bring attention to himself.

Whatever Aster and Argyrus had been discussing, Jazz knew he shouldn’t have been listening. Even if he had no idea what the slag they’d been talking about, neither of the two mechs would be happy to learn that he’d been snooping. Primus, he wasn’t even supposed to be in here; he’d traded off library cleaning duty with Odeon because he hadn’t been keen on cleaning up Radiance’s personal chambers.

The youngling may have been sweet, in that annoying saccharine sort of way, but he was worse than a blundering Dinobot when it came to keeping order. Needless to say, there would have been a lot of physical exertion on Jazz’s part that he wasn’t in the best of shape to keep up with. With his own bitlet on the way, the last thing Jazz wanted was to develop an annoyance towards younglings. Especially considering who the tiny blue bot’s sire was and all.

Optics shuttering briefly, Jazz watched as Argyrus stood still for a couple kliks, hands massaging his faceplates in brief exasperation before he let out a deep and heavy sigh. Muttering something under his breath, he quickly followed suit behind Aster, making a rather dramatic display of slamming the door behind him when he exited.

Jazz let out a heavy exvent of relief and sagged against the bookcase, a hand subconsciously coming to rest over his fluttering Spark.

That’d been close.

But for all the danger it’d posed, Jazz at very least learned something important. Somebody important was coming over for a visit, someone that had an obvious pull over Argyrus. Even if they weren’t the ones responsible for all the scrap that’d happened in the past quartexes, they would still be worth investigating.

Plans that the saboteur would happily make once he got out of the library, of course. For some reason, the large room suddenly seemed stifling and too confining and he wanted nothing more than to run back to his bunk in the servants’ quarters and take a brief recharge for the rest of his shift. The library was spotless after all, hardly anybody used it and it was cleaned on a daily basis...nobody would notice he’d missed a day.

Picking up his cleaning cloths, the saboteur subspaced them and made a beeline for the exit. His hand closed over the large handle of the ornate door and he pulled it open, slipping through the sparse opening and made a right turn, his frame moving in the direction he remembered coming down in the first place. Each footstep echoed on the shiny alloy floor, reverberating down the hall as he all but sprinted for the only safe location he knew in the entire estate.  

He should’ve been more aware of where was going.

The thought crossed his mind moments after he turned a corner and slammed into another bot, his smaller frame bouncing off the other with a painful sounding clank. His aft met the floor and he skidded a couple feet, balancing gyros temporarily thrown out of alignment.

“Frag...” Jazz hissed, one hand coming up to hold his throbbing helm. His optics were recalibrating themselves, static lacing his vision as his visual input systems struggled to right themselves after the impact. But even through it all, the saboteur could see a dark blotch approaching from his peripheral vision, steps heavy and methodical, until a dark shadow loomed over him and obscured his vision completely.

“You lost, little bot?”

Jazz froze.

Optics widening behind his visor, Jazz glanced up slowly, pain in his frame forgotten as he met the gaze of the owner of the familiar voice. Scarlet optics were narrowed curiously over a fine noseplate, smooth looking lips curled into a sickly-sweet smile.

Argyrus tilted his helm to one side and it was only then that Jazz realized the mech was offering him a hand.

Jazz’s first instinct was to slap it away but he quickly remembered that a meek servant wouldn’t do such a thing and, after a bit of hesitation, placed his hand in the palm of the green mech’s. Lithe fingers wrapped around his as they helped him to his feet and Jazz resisted the urge to grimace when he felt Argyrus’ thumb caress the back of his palm.

“Thank you.” Jazz said, dipping his helm in mock gratitude. He tried to pull his hand back but to his disbelief, the green mech’s grip merely tightened.

A paroxysm of unease sprouted in Jazz’s belly, coiling tighter and tighter with each moment that he remained trapped in the green mech’s presence.

“You didn’t answer my question.” Argryus crooned, his ministrations on Jazz’s hand never faltering.

The saboteur swallowed roughly. “I’m late for my shift, my lord.” The last word felt like acid on his glossa.

Scarlet optics narrowed into slits, smooth lips pursing as Argyrus lifted his helm to look back in the direction that Jazz had come from. It was then that the saboteur realized he’d made his first mistake; the only thing in that direction was the library. The servant quarters were in the opposite direction, the exact opposite from whence Jazz had been coming before smacking right into him.

“You do realize that it does no good to lie to me, right?” A harsh jerk of his arm and Jazz nearly stumbled into him, his quick reflexes the only thing that allowed him to remain upright.

“I’m not lying.” Jazz replied smoothly, hoping his confidence would be more beneficial than the meekness he’d try to play up in the beginning. Unfortunately, it only served to make the green mech even more determined to make the unease in Jazz’s insides grow exponentially. Perhaps it was a coincidence, the saboteur mused as warm fingers reached up to caress his cheek, the lithe digits smelling of imported waxes and oil. Argyrus had no idea who he was, no knowledge that they’d had this kind of encounter before, back when Jazz was himself and had been baiting him over a cube of Enex at the bonding ceremony of one of his closest friends. 

But the familiarity with which Argyrus traced his helm was hauntingly familiar and for a brief moment, Jazz truly believed that he’d gone and screwed everything up. Any second now, Argyrus would utter his real designation and then everything the saboteur had been building up come crashing down in a raging ball of fire and turmoil. He’d have failed Optimus and Prowl; Cybertron would crumble and the chaos and dissension everyone had been dreading would take hold of the planet and rip it apart.

Closing his optics behind his visor and coiling his EM field tightly around him in a last-ditch effort to prove his innocence, Jazz waited for the inevitable. He felt Argyrus lean in close to his face, exvents stale, until his lips were poised over his audial. 

And then, he spoke.

“Do you like poetry, servant?”

Jazz stilled, the question catching him off guard. “What?” He dared open his optics to stare into those scarlet depths.

Argyrus’ optics twitched at the impolite response but a questionable smile played upon his lips. “Poetry,” he repeated, cupping his hand around Jazz’s cheek and tracing the seam beneath his optic with his thumb. “I’m quite fond of it myself.”

Was this a jab at Jazz’s presence in the library? It was hard to tell but Jazz knew it was better to be safer than sorry so he played along. 

“I’ve never been much of a reader, my lord.” It was honest but vague answer.

Argyrus scoffed, rising to his full height but his hands never leaving Jazz’s frame. “A pity. So many beautiful things are relayed through poetry, after all, things simple phrases are too colloquial to relay.” A pause. “A favorite of mine happens to be _The Odes of Nebulous_. Ever hear of them?”

Yes, Jazz had. Once, as a youngling, he’d snuck into a library just to mess with the librarian that always gave his carrier a hard time when he saw him in the streets. He’d seen a nice mech reading that book and overhead a couple phrases before deciding he was too boring and left.

But he wasn’t about to reveal any of that.

“No, my lord.”

“Hmph. I don’t expect any less from one such as yourself. But I suppose you will do.” Before Jazz could even ponder what the mech meant by that, Jazz found himself being pulled alongside Argyrus who’d taken it upon himself to stalk down a different hallway with the saboteur trailing behind him. Jazz tried to pull back but the grip on his hand was ironclad and unless he wanted to draw attention to himself by using one of his takedown maneuvers, he had no choice but to follow through.

They burst through a silver door, the smell of scented oils attacking Jazz’s olfactory sensors and the darkness of the room barely registering in his processor before the door slammed shut and he was being thrown onto a neatly made berth with enough force to drive the breath from his frame.

Heavy footsteps echoed through the room and Jazz’s visor flared white as he scrambled to right himself among the silky sheets. He caught a glimpse of scarlet optics, bright and narrowed in a predatory glare, making their way towards him and it was then that the saboteur realized what was about to happen. His EM field uncoiled and meshed with the green bot’s and the lust and frustration that hit him would’ve been enough to knock him off his feet. Argyrus was aggravated and furious and all of that was culminating into a festering frustration that was in desperate need of release. All his disgust for him, that desire for submission and servitude was still there, lurking and tainting his field until it left the saboteur tasting nothing but it’s bitterness.

Any sane bot would’ve taken a day off. Maybe mediated, eaten some confectioneries or sat down with a friend to watch some cheesy soap operas. At the very least, recharge would’ve been a last resort.

But Argyrus was not a normal mech, Jazz noted, wincing as a pair of green hands curled around his thighs and wrenched them apart with enough force to make his hip joints creak in protest. To him, the only apparent method of release involved raping the nearest and most unfortunate servant within his vicinity. 

Jazz struggled, not caring if doing so made him look suspicious. Servant or not, no mech in their right mind would lay down and let themselves be defiled in such a way. Gritting his dentae, the saboteur aimed to strike his palm against the larger mech’s chin but the dark made it difficult to calculate and he only managed a weak punch that was more of a caress than an actual attack. Before long, Argyrus managed to get his entire frame over the saboteur’s and his lips were messily pressed against the saboteur’s, wet and unwelcome; a bright red warning glyph suddenly flashed over Jazz’s HUD as a foreign pressure was exerted over his chestplate. His Spark pounded in his chest, the newspark bouncing around in fear as it caught onto the residual desperation of its carrier.

That was when Jazz felt those familiar fingers groping at the apex of his thighs and he froze, remembering something Jespa had told him. Interfacing...any mech that interfaced with him would basically be contributing to the construction of his creation’s protoform. In any other scenario, Jazz would have allowed the mech to use his frame as a warm wet hole to get off with; after all, his time on the streets had taught him that it was easier to give up what you could live without. But Jazz wasn’t alone anymore. His frame wasn’t just a broken vessel housing his Spark. 

It was a sanctuary for the tiny little orb of life circling his essence, that tiny sliver that was a representation of everything Jazz had never believed in but now desperately hoped for.

He couldn’t let Argyrus taint it with his filth. 

In that moment, it was as if a switch had been flipped inside of the saboteur’s mind. Battle systems hummed to life and with a speed Jazz hadn’t used in centuries, the saboteur managed to grab onto both of Argyrus’ hands, holding them in one hand tightly between their two frames. He hooked one of his legs around Argyrus’ rutting hips and pushed off the berth, flipping them over and effectively turning the tide.

The green mech pinned underneath him grinned, the light of his bright optics illuminating the leering flash of his dentae as he rolled his hips up against the saboteur’s, blazing hot panel against an expectedly cool panel.

“Eager, are we?”

Jazz flashed him a dangerous smirk. “You have no idea.” Flipping his visor to night vision, the saboteur was able to see his fingers as he opened up his wrist port and unspooled his interface cord, locating Argyrus’ and doing the same to his. Before the green mech could even question what he was doing, Jazz connected the two of them together with a barely audible click.

The usual handshake was bypassed as Jazz unleashed everything he had against the green mech; he tore through his haptic and neural net with a vengeance, plunging Argyrus’s consciousness into a dark and senseless limbo that left his entire frame limp and prone.

A small exvent of relief escaped the saboteur and he sagged slightly, hands coming up to rest on Argyrus’ chest as he caught himself. He was dizzy, lightheaded but at the very least he was safe. The newspark fluttered anxiously, prodding at his Spark as if verifying that the relief was real. Jazz ignored it, focusing instead on his task at hand.

This was something he knew how to do, an act that he’d become an expert in during his time as the SpecOps commander during the war. Activating his hacking protocols, Jazz bypassed the heavy encryptions surrounding Argyrus’ processor, heading for the unit housing his memories and browsing through them until he got to the time stamp he was looking for. His energy levels were running low from his exertion, preventing him from simply looking through everything and bailing so he was doing the one thing that would ensure his cover wasn’t blown.

He was staging his own rape.

Expression stony, Jazz watched as his protocols altered Argyrus’ memories, planting a tiny seed that grew into something grotesque and ugly. In the green mech’s memories, Jazz had gone limp under his ministrations. His lips had been complacent under his and hands curled into the berth as green hands roved over dark grey paneling, dipping into seams and tickling the circuitry that lay underneath. As if on command, Jazz’s valve panel had popped open and Argyrus had gleefully plunged his spike into the warm slickness, ignoring the fact that there wasn’t enough lubricant to ease the penetration process and focusing only on how after a few reckless thrusts later, there was only pleasurable warmth surrounding his aching spike.

Overload came quickly, not as quick as Jazz would’ve liked to relay but enough that a tingle of satisfaction followed Argyrus’ actions. Smooth lips had kissed Jazz’s pursed ones, and it was there that the saboteur intended on ending it.

But then a flicker of an idea crossed his mind and he bit his lower lip, thinking.

What if he...

No, it was a _stupid_ idea.

Or was it?

The hesitation lasted only for a moment before Jazz gritted his dentae and delved back into Argyrus’ mind. Spark pounding in his chest, Jazz watched as Argyrus’ green hands pawed at his chestplates, movements clumsy and desperate, until the sound of a transformation permeated the air and dark grey plating moved back to reveal a dark blue Spark, bright and healthy as it spun around in its glass chamber.

And then Argyrus’ proceeded to do the same and Jazz watched as the dark green mech performed an act that Jazz had only allowed two mechs perform on him in his entire life. It was easy to translate the emotions that followed a spark merge, the joy, the tingling ecstasy, the satisfaction...it was all still fresh in Jazz’s mind from when he’d performed the same act with Soundwave and a quiet keen of hurt escaped him.

As soon as the false events were planted in Argyrus’ processor, Jazz made his way out and his hands shook as he all but snapped Argryus’ cord away from his own. Panting, the saboteur shuffled to the edge of the bed, Spark churning and frame feeling violated in spite of the fact that none of those events had transpired in real life. But for all that Argyrus and eventually everyone in the estate would know, they had.

His hands curled into fists as disgust and hatred welled up inside him and he only managed to resist tearing into the recharging form inches away from him by slamming his fists onto his thighs. Warm wetness met his hands and he gasped, glancing down and immediately recoiling in revulsion.

The silvery traces of Argyrus’ transfluid stained his plating and glancing back, Jazz assumed the representative’s frame had overloaded in conjunction with the planted images in his processor.

Jazz felt like he was going to be sick. Swallowing roughly, he stumbled off the berth and made his escape from the dark confines of the room, nauseous as the smell of ozone followed him out into the hall. But he didn’t stop there. He did his best to wipe the streaks of silver off his legs and ran, his legs carrying him in a direction that he’d come to know by heart.

It was pure luck that Jespa was alone when he barged in, huffing and puffing as he fell to his knees in the middle of her office. The silver femme’s green optics widened as she caught sight of him and she was at his side in an instant, one hand grasping his trembling arm while the other patted his back.

“Meister?” She asked, managing to sound calm in spite of the circumstances. Her EM field reached out towards him, wrapping around his like a blanket of comfort and solidarity. It was enough to make the saboteur’s near-hysterical exvents subside to uneasy exhalations, arms wrapping around his torso in an attempt to calm his frenetic Spark. Jespa took heed of the fact and narrowed her optics.

“What happened?” She asked, voice careful.

Jazz turned to look at her, hoping the desperation in his optics was noticeable.

“I...” He paused, swallowing in a failed attempt to lubricate his dry mouth. “I need help.”

Green optics narrowed even further as they took in his appearance, taking note of the green paint transfers, the whiff of ozone and the undeniable evidence of someone else’s overload lingering on his thighs. Jazz prayed with all his might that Jespa would understand, that she wouldn’t stand up and report him right then and there and throw him out into the world where he would only be met with anger for his failures. He didn’t believe in Primus, he refused to, but in that moment he prayed that their mythical creator did exist and he was listening. If not for him, then for the tiny Spark that the saboteur was housing alongside his.

A single moment seemed to stretch on for eternity as Jazz watched those green depths shimmer with a variety of emotions; first there was disbelief, confusion, uncertainty and then finally, surrender.

Jespa let out a sigh, silently helping him onto his feet. Then her grip on his frame tightened and she leveled him with a stern glare.

“Tell me everything that happened.”

  

~~~

 

 

“You’re never going to get out of here. You know that, right?”

Calm scarlet optics regarded the black and white Praxian, the serenity in their depths replaced by a boredom that was unbecoming of a bot that’d been undergoing several orns of interrogation. Silver faceplates twisted into a slight grimace as red painted lips parted to sigh softly. 

“I’m surprised you haven’t gotten sick of those words. You’ve been repeating them over and over nonstop.” The femme lifted a shoulder, smiling when her joint cracked and the pressure in her neck was relieved. Her purple armor rippled with strength underneath the bright white light of the tiny interrogation room and she grinned when she caught Prowl observing her.

“You’re not one of those cops that bends a femme over a table to get information outta her, are you?” Her cuffed hands, which were resting on the table, turned over reveal her empty palms.

Prowl grimaced and crossed his arms over his chassis. “Nobody is going to hurt you. At least, not if you offer us information on why you decided you wanted to kill the Prime.”

The femme’s optic ridges furrowed. “Is that who he was? Huh. I expected him to be bigger.”

The former tactician resisted the urge to roll his optics. “I won’t ask again.” He threatened subtly, leaning forward to rest his hands on the edge of the table. White doorwings spread in a visible display of dominance, something the mech was reticent in using but usually resorted to as a last resort. Most criminals flinched at the sight or at least displayed something that let the Praxian know that he was nudging them in the right direction but the femme in front of him wasn’t even looking at him; her optics were roving the room, settling on the opaque glass that hid the spectating mechs from her line of sight.

The cuffs clinked as she shifted in her seat, grinning and leaning to the side with a coy smile on her face. “Is that silver mech with doorwings watching? I liked him. He was a looker.” Dentae bared in a predatory grin. “Or the femme with those large shoulder tires and blue decals. I like to think I’d look good nestled between those thighs—.”

“Enough!” Prowl growled, optics narrowing. He could stand for plenty of things but having a prisoner berate and taunt his officers was something he would never tolerate, especially not when those crude words were being aimed at two of his top officers. Grimacing, the Praxian gathered the datapad in the middle of the table and made his way out of the tiny room, a heavy exhale escaping him when he was met with the narrowed optics of his lieutenant.

Riot huffed. “Glitch still giving you trouble?" 

“Yes,” Prowl said, comfortable enough with the silver mech to let his frustration carry into his tone. He glanced to the bright window that showed the femme inside the room, who was now smiling and muttering something under her breath. “She seems unconcerned with the fact that she’s been convicted of a very serious crime. If anything, she seems to almost be enjoying it.”

Lips twisting to one side, Riot shrugged. “Yeah, well, the mech she was with isn’t talking much.”

“Oh?” Prowl followed Riot to the other window a little further down, where a lithe purple mech was hunched over in his chair. Unlike the femme, he seemed focused solely on himself and didn’t even glance up at the officer currently interrogating him. Nothing, not even a head tilt or even a flinch when the interrogator slammed his open palms down on the table, wings flared and gold visor flashing. A few more minutes of the same treatment and then he too was left on his own, the disgruntled Seeker in charge of his questioning stepping out to utter a string of curses Prowl hadn’t heard since a time he spent undercover in old Kaon.

“I assume you haven’t had any luck either, Silverwing?”

Silverwing shook his head, coming to stand with them with his arms crossed tightly over the glass cockpit on his chassis. “None. I don’t get it, it’s like they’re immune to every single thing we’ve been throwing at them. Avex tried to seduce the femme but she simply smiled and said he wasn’t her type then burst into laughter.” He clicked his glossa, unamused. “We got a pair of psychopaths in there and they aren’t gonna break if we keep using the normal techniques.”

Both senior officers stiffened at the younger bot’s words, blue and gold optics narrowing in tandem.

“Silverwing...” Riot warned, casting a look at their fellow commissioner.

Prowl was unperturbed. “Torture, Silverwing?” Despite his aversion to the tactic, he could at least respect that Silverwing didn’t flinch when met with utter bluntness regarding his suggestion. Instead, his gold optics narrowed with resolution.

“With all due respect, this isn’t some petty criminal, sir. What we have in those two rooms are bots who tried to assassinate the mech leading our government. Now, with or against the Prime, he represents Cybertron and any attack on him...is an attack on everything we’ve been struggling to rebuild and that warrants, at the very least, a deep processor scan.”

Silence met the young mech’s words. Prowl allowed one of his hands to rest on his chin, index finger tapping against his upper lip as he contemplated the situation. The mech wasn’t wrong, politically speaking. But the moral implications, as always, were the one thing standing in the way of it all.

“You can’t be seriously contemplating such a thing,” Riot said, sounding slightly nervous. His EM field flared with alarm. “Prowl. Think of the public backslash if you go through with something like that.” 

Oh, yes. That was the first thing Prowl’s tac-net had been thinking about when Silverwing had offered his suggestion. Torturing prisoners had been frowned upon during the war, even by the mechs that’d performed most of the procedures and during peacetime the aversion was even greater. But it was an unfortunate truth that most criminals very rarely responded to verbal stimuli during cross examinations. Pain, however...every bot responded to pain.

Sighing, Prowl replied. “It’s an option. But not one I’m too keen on exploring,” he informed, hoping his answer was vague enough to satisfy both parties. Silverwing wasn’t too convinced but at the very least Riot’s anxiousness had eased; it would have to do for now.

Eventually Silverwing’s break came up and he bid them both farewell before walking out of the interrogation hab of their Praxian headquarters, murmuring good luck under his breath as he passed them both by. As the door closed, it dawned on Prowl that it was only him and Riot that were left, the late hours having prompted most of the staff and technicians back to their homes and family.

Fatigue slowly crept up on Prowl, reminding him that he’d been absent from his berth and mates for a little over two orns. Not long enough to cause anyone worry but certainly long enough that his frame was feeling the aftereffects of not having had physical comfort in a while. He missed Sideswipe and Sunstreaker and though they smiled and said it was fine, he knew they also wallowed in his absence, their bond being the only thing sating what would have been deep bitter loneliness.

“It’s too bad that little shadow of yours isn’t here.” The words caught Prowl by surprise and he blinked out of his musings, glancing at his lieutenant.

“Come again?” 

A strange glee rolled off Riot, as if he were proud of having caught the sharp mech out of his wits. “Your little shadow. Something tells me he would’ve found a way to get those two talking.”

On cue, Prowl’s doorwings lowered and he allowed a bit of sadness and longing to trickle into his EM field, emotions he’d been wearing on his metaphorical sleeve ever since Jazz’s ‘death’ had been globally broadcasted. It was an instinctual reaction with some basis in reality; he missed his friend and his lack of communication had allowed Prowl the perfect fuel to make his melancholy state more believable. The reporters and tabloid writers had slowly become less and less, with him being able to wander the streets without being harassed by a bot wanting the latest news on a relationship he was no longer in with a supposed deceased mech.

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were grateful for the fall in popularity, though they never failed to offer comfort and sympathy when Prowl needed it.

It hurt, keeping them in the dark, but it was a necessity that Prowl did not even intend to argue. Whatever Jazz and himself ended up discovering, he did not want the Twins caught in the crossfire; he’d seen them rise up from the darkness of their lives and make a valiant effort to fit into the peace they’d never had the opportunity to become acquainted with. Sideswipe was taking up racing and Sunstreaker was a part time fine arts instructor at a local hostel, jobs they both seemed to enjoy far more than their guard duty over Optimus and Megatron. Prowl didn’t want to be the reason they found their loyalty or duty brought into question.

Riot, on the other hand, had known about the operation. Not the fact that the bounty hunters had been orchestrated but that the threat of an attack had been real; Optimus had been in actual danger and Jazz’s death had been nothing but an unfortunate side effect.

It felt a bit odd lying to a mech he’d trusted for vorns now as they chased criminals down the streets but Prowl had come to the conclusion that he’d sooner trust Jazz and Ratchet than a mech he’d become acquainted with in peacetime. During the war, he’d been pitted against the end of everything and his Autobot comrades had stuck beside him through thick and thin. That in itself warranted extreme levels of camaraderie that was difficult to recreate.

With a sad twitch of his lips, Prowl shrugged. “Perhaps. But he’s gone. I can’t doddle on that now.”

Riot gave him a curious glance but let it go, turning to look at the two windows and the bots that lay inside. The femme was singing a show tune, something off-world, and her shoulders swayed with the uneven beat. Her companion was silent, red optics staring at the table over the rim of his faceplate. Not even a digit twitched.

It was unnerving and he hated how he was leaning more and more towards Silverwing’s suggestion with each passing moment. Invasive interrogation techniques were not an issue after all. There were plenty of mechs who would be willing to offer their services in the name of all the good.

Vortex, for example, would be ecstatic. Ever since he and First Aid had gotten involved, Vortex’s violent tendencies had simmered down a bit and he’d been able to find a steady job that allowed him earn decent credits, and for the most part, live a pretty normal life. Despite what everyone thought, he wasn’t crazy.

Just really, really, really good at what he did.

Dammit. His optics shuttered, heavy with exhaustion and he knew then and there that he wasn’t in the best shape to make decisions. His tac net used up a lot of his energy and the orns he’d spent trying to wring a confession from the two captured bounty hunters had all but depleted his energy reserves. Maybe a recharge in his own berth, with the Twins on either side of him, would grant him the momentary peace he needed to simply think things over more clearly.

Yes, that was definitely what he needed.

“You go ahead,” Riot said, breaking through his musings. “I’ll keep an optic on things. Go home and recharge.”

Prowl didn’t even argue. “Thank you.”

Riot smiled and dipped his helm. 

In no time at all, Prowl found himself wandering through the streets, head held high as the prospect of seeing the Twins put a bit of life into his tired limbs. The downtown area of Praxus was still alive with activity, with businesses still displaying their ‘Open’ sign despite the late hour and more than a couple bots loitering about enjoying the cafes and libraries that welcomed them in. It was almost as if peace time had made bots more than willing to indulge in these small proclivities, happy moments that were no longer taken for granted.

Turning a corner, Prowl finally found himself on a less crowded street that led him directly to his compartment complex and as he stepped foot on the path, he caught a familiar streak of red from the corner of his optic. Immediately, his tac-net booted online.

He didn’t know the bot but they apparently knew him since they’d been following him for more than a couple blocks. Coming to a halt, Prowl whipped around to confront but his doorwings fluttered in surprise when he realized it was the mech from a small disco café that resided near his workplace. The bot’s name was escaping him at the moment but it ended up not mattering.

Head dipped, the bot extended a hand, palm up to display a tiny Energon gummy snuggly nestled in frilly blue tissue paper.

“Excuse me?”

The red bot lifted his helm and smiled kindly. “Token of appreciation for your efforts, commissioner. On the house.”

Prowl lifted an optic ridge and shook his helm. “I appreciate the gesture, but it’s really not necessary...”

“On the contrary,” the bot said softly, “we ran out of rust sticks, and we know what a sucker you are for those. But a tune in our heads told us you would love our sour Energon goodies.”

The words made Prowl freeze; it was brief, almost imperceptible to the untrained optic since he managed to recover quickly enough to take the tiny offering and mutter a polite thank you. He cradled the confectionary in his hands, pinching it between is thumb and forefinger, pretending to be observing it when in reality his attention was on the tiny dataslug that the green treat had been laid on top of. It was black, unmarked, but the significance of it was not lost on the black and white Praxian.

He all but raced back to his compartment, standing in the reception area of the spacious living space he called home and eyeing the tiny slug between his fingers before inserting it into his wristport. He waited a couple moments for his systems to scan for antiviruses though he knew it was unnecessary.

Then the message began to play and a broken sigh of relief escaped him as the words flooded his processor and audials.

It was music.

Earth music, with its unsynchronized chorus and odd vocal ranges, but it’s extremely informative lyrics.

When Sideswipe and Sunstreaker found Prowl, they found him smiling widely and when they asked if he’d had a break in the case, he couldn’t do anything but smile and nod. Because it was a white lie that he couldn’t bring himself to care about, not now.

Jazz was safe. Safe and sound. And he’d finally established a way to initiate contact. For a brief moment, things were finally settling into place. Perhaps things did have the capability of working out after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, Prowl...
> 
> If only that were true.


	14. A Serving Of Hospitality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The guests finally arrive and Jazz makes a startling discovery.

_“And yet,_

_to say the truth,_

_reason and love_

_keep little company_

_together_

_nowadays.”_

                                                                                      

—William Shakespeare

 

It was amazing how quickly news traveled.

Jazz had thought he’d seen it make record times during the war, when scuttlebutt was able to make it from the lowest levels of the Autobot army to the higher ups in a matter of astroseconds. Two bots would clang and nobody would be none the wiser before the first overload and when it came to deception and mutiny, the travel time was often cut in half. Bots loved to run their mouths but apparently within the walls of more sophisticated societies, they loved to fucking sprint.

Jazz had gone to Aster and announced his carrying state and the white mech had glared down at him in disdain, muttering nothing more than a confirmation and telling him to go tell the cook that his rations would be doubled. It would’ve been easier to fire him, Jazz knew, but since word had gotten around that Jazz had become another mech in the long line of maltreated employees under Argyrus’ employment, terminating him would’ve been detrimental.

Bots would talk and with the green mech holding a position in the Senate, it would do him no good to have rumors of him sparking and then subsequently throwing out carriers running about.

At least, that was what everyone thought to be true. Only Jespa and ‘Meister’ knew the actuality and the former was not inclined to rectify any of the rumors’ falsehoods. Jazz assumed it had something to do with her oath as a healer but he liked to imagine that he had somehow managed to charm her into extending a branch of friendship. But whatever the case, even if more attention had been thrust upon him, at the very least his position was safe.

At least, that’s what he kept repeating to himself as he knelt by his bunk and took out his cleaning materials from the small box he kept underneath it. He felt the sneers of several of the other couriers and servants, his sharp audials picking up the whispers and begrudging threats they didn’t dare voice to his face as they prepped themselves for another day of work. All things the saboteur had heard before so it wasn’t too difficult to brush them off. He did, however, keep a stony expression to at least keep up the appearance of a bot having been wronged.

Odeon no longer followed him like a lost petrorabbit anymore but he wasn’t completely avoiding him either; everywhere he went, Jazz saw a flash of orange in his peripheral vision and he felt a tiny bit gracious that his only friend hadn’t completely abandoned him. With time, Odeon would get over his shock and things would get back to the way they were before.

The day began simply; with their morning rations passed out and then their duties passed around in the form of datapads. The normal chart depicting their duties was taken down and individual diagrams of each bot’s duties were passed around once Aster had announced that guests were to be arriving none too soon. This caused a ripple of interest to spread among the household staff, with a couple of the garden workforce having popped in near the edges of the agglomeration in the kitchens to hear what they could.

No details were offered as to who but based off the anxiety rolling off the normally stoic white mech, everyone assumed they were special.

This somehow sparked a sense of productivity and Jazz hadn’t even finished his second cube before everyone else was hightailing it out, a few bots comparing their workload and a couple musing over who it could possibly be that had the lord ordering in imported goods and fine berth sheets. Jazz perked up when he heard the high voice of Crosswire, who was loudly declaring his own assumptions as he made his way to the door with a yellow paneled bot.

“It’s the lord’s conjunx! I just know it is!”

“You idiot,” his yellow companion retorted, shaking his helm. “That can’t be true.”

Crosswire huffed. “It is! It’s been a couple quartexes since she took on that hiatus she said she needed. I’m sure so much time away from dear Radiance probably has her worrying silly...” His voice faded as the doors closed behind him and glancing around, Jazz realized that he was more or less alone. Only two bots sat at the far edge of the long table and they were paying him absolutely no heed whatsoever.

Odeon was nowhere in sight.

Jazz frowned, mulling over what he’d just heard. Conjunx? Who in their right mind would ever make Argyrus’ their conjunx? More to the point, who’d ever have a youngling and then leave it in his morose care? His interest was piqued, and though he chastised himself for deviating from what he’d been sent to do, he couldn’t help but feel that all of this was somehow interconnected. He gulped down the rest of his Energon and turned on his own datapad, visor bright as he read what he’d been assigned.

To his surprise, there was only one thing listed.

“Supervise Master Radiance.” That was it. No description on the how, what or why. The vagueness made Jazz a little uneasy, as if some hidden motive lurked underneath the deceptively simple listing. He blamed it on his years as a SpecOps mech, particularly when he’d been hazed while receiving tutelage from his former mentor.

But he reminded himself that this was not the war and chances were that this was nothing more than somebody’s failed attempt to make him uncomfortable. After all, pairing the sparked servant with the creation of his attacker? Aster probably expected Jazz to feel guilty, ashamed even as if what had happened had been his fault.

Thankfully, Jazz’s newspark wasn’t Argyrus’. It was his (and his alone) and he had the emotional capacity to care for another mech’s creation to the best of his ability. After all, how hard could it be?

The saboteur instantly regretted those words once he found himself in the main chamber wing, standing in the doorway of a berthroom and staring down the tiny blue occupant currently denying him entry.

“Radiance,” Jazz said, dropping the formal title.

Gold optics narrowed into slits. “Meister,” he said and the contempt in that squeaky little voice was the first indication that something was amiss. Frowning, Jazz tilted his helm to one side. “Have I done something wrong?”

The tiny bot shrugged. “Yes. No. I dunno.” He twisted his lips to one side, suddenly unsure.

Jazz sighed and knelt down to get near the youngling’s level, ignoring the creak in his joints and they tiny pain that erupted near the bottom of his torso. “What have you heard?” He asked, voice patient. Radiance had no doubt been sneaking around again and Jazz knew from the shame in his field that he’d overheard something that he shouldn’t have.

Small hands twisted around one another, a tiny foot digging its tip into the floor. “Aster said you’re...carrying. That I’m going to have a sibling soon.” Jazz felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Not only because of the hopeful glimmer in the youngling’s optics but rather because the indirect admission that his own gestating creation had been referred to as anything other than a bastard. They were referring to his creation as this tiny bot’s sibling and though any servant with less than an iode of a processor would have been preening, Jazz couldn’t help but feel uncertain.

There was an interest revolving around his bitlet and that made a deep-coded sense of protective anger rise up inside him. Luckily, he managed to reign it in before Radiance could teek it in his field and instead he let out a small huff of amusement.

“Don’t go sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” he said, rising to his full height and tapping the youngling on the tip of his nose. Glancing around the room, Jazz resisted the urge to groan once he saw the mess that resided inside the large chamber. Datapads were strewn everywhere, the berth was messy and a collage of bright hand prints and streaks of colorful painted decorated a wall. It smelled of old sweets and dried paint, a combination that made the saboteur’s tanks churn but he swallowed the nausea rising in his intakes and offered a small smile down at the curious creature at his feet.

“How about we go about cleaning this up, yeah?”

At once, Radiance’s soft innocence disappeared and he grimaced. “I don’t want to."

Ah, there it was. The inane rebelliousness, fueled by the youngling’s privilege and the unspoken divide that lingered between them of servant and master. Jazz had never fallen victim to Radiance’s contempt but he’d stories from his fellow couriers that often came back to the servants’ quarters cursing the tiny blue bot’s existence and hands clutching the air as they imagined themselves wringing his neck. The saboteur had very little experience with younglings but he imagined that negotiating with them wasn’t too different from negotiating with overconfident criminals; both were greedy, selfish and you could make great strides towards your own goals if you fed into their overgrown egos and innermost desires.

With that in mind, the saboteur gave it his best shot.

“I’ll teach you a trick on how to sneak around without your joints making such a racket. I’ve got the data packet that’ll give you the schematics of the upgrades you’ll need. Clean your room and it’s yours.”

A brief moment of hesitation and then organized mayhem ensued.

Gold optics nearly flaring white with excitement, Radiance became a tiny whirlwind as he attacked his room head on, skidding on a couple drops of drying paint as he picked up his datapads, made his berth and organized the paints and brushes that had been strewn about his chambers. Jazz watched from the cleanest corner of the room, sitting on a small ornate chair, offering a few vague directions when the cleaning slowed down until eventually, it looked like the room was livable once more. Radiance beamed as he made his way towards Jazz, grabbing one of the saboteur’s hands and giving it a not so gentle tug.

“It’s clean. Can I have that data packet now?”

Jazz hummed. “I dunno. You missed a couple spots.” He gestured towards the painted wall and the atrocious abstract art plastered upon it. Radiance let out a small grunt.

“It’s a present,” he said calmly, smiling. It was hard to notice the twinkle in his gaze.

“For who?”

“My carrier.” Radiance sighed, wistful. He clambered up onto Jazz’s lap and sat down, leaning back to rest on the saboteur’s chassis as if they’d been doing this for centuries. It made Jazz uncomfortable but he endured it, well aware that it would do him no good to incur the blue bot’s wrath. He needed at least one person that liked him in this damn estate, and between the gardener and the lord’s heir, he was more than willing for it to be the latter. “She’s coming back soon; my sire told me. She never really sticks around much but I want to surprise her and she really likes art. So maybe this will make her stay more.”

Jazz couldn’t help but find himself moved by the hope in the tiny bot’s words and without really thinking, his hand went to the top of the tiny helm and he gave it a few comforting pats. It was awkward and he felt mechanical as he did it but it seemed to appease the youngling because his tiny engine gave an enthusiastic purr of approval.

“Your carrier,” Jazz said softly, pets eventually resorting to more comfortable ruffling. Radiance’s helm was pleasantly smooth and the little kibble near his forehelm felt nice beneath his finger tip. “What’s she like?”

It was an innocent question, really and anyone who heard Jazz would’ve chalked it up to the curiosity of a new employee with much to learn about his employers. But Jazz was listening intently despite his nonchalant posture, eavesdropping for anything that would prove useful to his mission.

Innocent Radiance was oblivious to the hidden meaning of the inquiry and he grinned, looking up at Jazz over the cusp of his shoulder. “She’s beautiful. Kind, smart, awesome. Unlike my sire, she’s very strong and I wanna be able to show her that I can be helpful.”

Jazz couldn’t help but find the wording a bit odd. “Helpful?” He echoed, hoping the blue youngling would elaborate.

Radiance nodded, turning in Jazz’s lap until he was facing the saboteur. Tiny hands gripped dark grey arms, fingers digging into the alloy and displaying the passion of his words. “My carrier’s a fighter. Like her brother. They’re heroes and I want to be just like them!”

Silence met the youngling’s words and for a moment, the blue bot assumed he’d lost the attention of the attending servant in front of him but without missing a beat, Jazz smiled and tapped Radiance’s nose. “Strong words from such a tiny mech.”

Radiance huffed, hands balling into fists and armor flaring up. “I’m plenty big!”

“Are not.” Jazz blamed his activated carrier protocols for the tiny flare of amusement that went through him as he playfully debated with the tiny bot.

“Are too! And I’m strong and fast too! Come on, I’ll prove it.” Radiance twisted his hips and jumped off onto the floor, running to the door of his chamber and holding it open while ushering the saboteur with a frantic wave of his hand. Jazz was on his feet in an instant, instructions echoing in his processor, following his temporary charge through the elaborate hallways of the place he called home.

They eventually found themselves in the gardens, surrounded by the helix crystal clusters and mechanical fauna as Radiance led the way to a small open field a little ways from the estate. The gate surrounding the whole grounds was the only thing that kept them from getting out of range of the establishment and it allowed Jazz not to feel too anxious that they’d left the confines of the manor. The air was fresh and a welcome change from the synthetic scents that dominated the halls of Argyrus’ estate but the saboteur was too preoccupied with not losing sight of the blue bot to properly enjoy it.

“Watch how quickly I can make my turns!” The sound of a transformation and shifting metal permeated the air and before long a small blue Cybertronian race car was driving circles in the small circular clearing, scraps of dust and particles kicking up as he swerved around in a blatant display of speed and lack of coordination. He nearly flipped over a few times but Jazz had done nothing but chuckle, finding himself well and truly amused for the first time since he’d arrived. It felt odd, this tiny semblance of peace in the garden of an estate he’d been sent to investigate with the youngling of the bot who’d nearly ruined everything he’d set out to accomplish. It was unlike anything Jazz had experienced in his life and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to wallow in the serenity the moment offered him.

His twisted maze of a processor allowed him to delve even further into his momentary musings, until the world around him was shifting and the scenario was completely different. The saboteur had his original black and white frame, a smile was on his face and he was watching a tiny blue bot play among an expanse of white that was achingly familiar despite its oddness. The tiny creature swerved and swerved, transforming and kneeling to observe a cluster of crystal before delicately plucking one from its stem and turning around to offer it to him.

Jazz reached out to grab it, smiling softly. But his fingers had barely brushed the tiny blue ones when he’d glanced up to look into the youngling’s optics and the scarlet visor that stared back at him had him freezing place.

The sound of the crystal shattering on the ground as it slipped through the saboteur’s fingers was enough to launch the dark grey mech out of his mind and he blinked stupidly, alternating his gaze between the gold optics in front of him that were brimming with surprise and the decimated crystal shards scattered around his feet.

“Oh,” Jazz breathed, frowning. “I’m sorry, Radiance.”

The youngling furrowed his optic ridges. “Are you feeling okay, Meister?”

Jazz huffed. “Of course, I am. Why would you ask that?”

Radiance replied. “You looked kinda scared for a moment.”

The saboteur managed a weak smile, hating how close to the truth the tiny bot was getting at. “That’s impossible."

“Why?”

“Because I’m not scared of anything.”

Radiance tilted his helm to one side in a comedic display of canine confusion, the way Earth dogs had slanted their tiny heads when they heard some odd noise or music. “My carrier once told me everyone was scared of something.”

“Carriers often lie.” Jazz said softly, bending down to pick up the broken pieces of crystal. He’d throw them away when he got back to the estate; leaving them here would only anger the gardeners. A blur of blue was visible at the corner of his optics and then tiny blue hands were helping him with his task.

“Are you calling yourself a liar, then?” The question was blunt, unexpected and it made Jazz freeze momentarily in his tracks. But he quickly regained his rhythm and shook his helm in amusement.

“I lie sometimes,” he said carefully, measuring each word. “but only when I have to.”

Radiance hummed. “Is that why you lied about giving me the data packet?”

Caught in his bluff, Jazz couldn’t help but chuckle. “You wouldn’t have cleaned your chambers if I hadn’t told you about it.” Before Radiance could argue, Jazz lifted a hand, visor flashing. “But I have something better than a data packet.”

“What?”

Jazz grinned. “I can show you.”

Radiance let out a rather unseemly guffaw. “You? But you’re a servant. Servants don’t know how to fight and sneak around!”

The saboteur would’ve rubbed his hands in glee if he could but settled for a blasé shrug instead. “I know a few tricks.”

“Show me.” Radiance demanded.

“I’ll make a deal with you. Every orn you go without causing unnecessary mayhem is a lesson earned. Yeah?”

Radiance made a show of thinking it through but eventually he nodded, positively gleeful. It was so easy to push his buttons and had this been an actual mech, Jazz would’ve felt bad for the poor soul for getting stringed along so easily. But it was hard to feel triumphant when the social hierarchy between them fell for a brief moment as the first lesson was put into session, both of them hidden among the mechanical fauna and refractive minerals. Radiance listened with a patience that was unbecoming, understanding when Jazz’s frame failed to comply and automatically accepting verbal instruction instead.

It was brief, broken eventually by a rather anxious Aster that came tearing through the gardens crying out Radiance’s name. When the white mech found them, Radiance had taken to cheekily observing a crystal bush, field innocent as he pretended to be pleasantly surprised by his sire’s personal retainer. Aster said nothing to Jazz when he swooped in and retrieved the youngling, but he did cast a rather unseemly glance at the dark grey mech before leaving with his charge.

Jazz let out a small breath of a laugh, shaking his helm and making his way back to the estate. He may have lost a good portion of his acquaintances in the past few decaorn, but he’d earned the trust of a bot that could very well have enough influence to help Jazz achieve his goal. It was ambitious thinking but Jazz had always been the kind of mech to think outside of the box.

This time was no different.

 

~~~

 

 

Jazz couldn’t recharge.

He’d woken up in the middle of his recharge cycle whimpering and softly moaning, frame wrought with shivers as it struggled to decide if it was feeling overheated or far too cold to function properly. His Spark was beating rather insistently against his chest, a staccato rhythm that thundered louder and louder in his processor until he opened his optics and stared up at the grey ceiling in shock and confusion.

He huffed heavily, clamping a hand over his mouth so as not to wake any of the other mechs sleeping around him with his loud ventilations. Another shiver wracked through his frame, this one strong enough to make his back arch off the berth and that’s when the saboteur felt it.

A paradoxical ache between him legs, one he’d always been privy to ever since his interfacing hardware had come online. Discreetly, Jazz dragged a hesitant hand over the arear where his interface panels lay and he grimaced as he felt a familiar warmth pooling there, liquid lubricant spilling through the thin seams of his valve panel and already staining the berth underneath him. His thumb accidentally brushed across the hot metal and his port gave an involuntary clench, a flash of fiery pleasure rushing through his lines and making his dentae gnaw on his lower lip as a moan of pleasure threatened to escape him.

This wasn’t good.

His interfacing drive had obviously been activated, a clear indication that the newspark had reached his gestation chamber and was ready to begin production of the protoform. It was far sooner than Jespa had predicated and had Jazz not been so aroused, he would’ve been worried but he couldn’t think about anything as he stumbled out bed and made his way to the washracks in the adjoining room, dentae clenched as he struggled to get a hold of himself.

This was bad.

Very very bad.

He turned on the solvent spray on the coldest setting possible, shivering violently as the ice-cold liquid hit his slowly overheating frame. He leaned forward, hands pressed against the wall as he tensed and endured the cold, appreciating how the shower allowed him to at least collect his bearings.

The desire to interface never left but at the very least he didn’t feel like jumping on the nearest mech and begging them to spike him and put him out of his misery.

The saboteur cursed, one hand curling into a fist and slamming against the tile wall. Dammit. He’d been so fragging stupid; underestimating the toll that carrying would’ve had on him, not trying hard enough to actually investigate the one damn thing he’d been sent here to do...it seemed that he’d accomplished nothing and he hated how the voice in his head kept on reminding him the real reason he’d left the comfort of Iacon in the first place.

A hand crept up over his chassis, following the natural curve until it came to rest over his ventrum, directly over where his limited knowledge of procreational anatomy stated the gestation chamber lay. He felt nothing different, no rise or bump that indicated the expansion of his internal structures to accommodate a gestating frame. But the protoform beneath his fingertips was tender and he winced, imagining what he’d look like once he actually got moving along in the process. He’d probably be immobile, unable to do much but waddle to and fro, a giant red target painted over his torso that all but indicated where enemies should strike.

He’d never seen carriers before in his life. Sparking had been outlawed by the former regime that’d ruled Cybertron, the invasive process deemed too bothersome and energy consuming, and so Jazz had lived his eons seeing only forged and hot spot borne methods of procreation. It was simple, clean and effective.

But this...this was something intimate. A delicate process that required a dedicated partner, one who was willing to endure any mishaps that the process would entail. Only bots truly in love would indulge in this method and Jazz hated how he stupidly allowed himself to believe that he could do it alone.

Much less couple it with a mission that had half of Cybertron’s well-being resting on his shoulders.

A mirthless chuckle escaped him, head bowing as he watched the rivulets of solvent circle the drain between his pedes, tiny trickles of silver lubricant mixed into the swirling vortex.

He’d made a mistake. It...was a mistake. His Spark twisted painfully in his chest, in tandem with a particularly unwelcome clench of his valve walls. Everything was a huge fragging mess and Jazz couldn’t blame outside forces for his one; it’d all been him.

He blamed it on his interfacing drives but arousal usually had bots imagining romanticized versions of their ideal lovers, of shiny armor, bright optics and attentive EM fields that meshed and soothed with each pulse of energy. But Jazz wasn’t thinking about any of that at the moment; he was imaging that the door to the washracks would open up and in would stroll the blue communications officer that haunted his memories, scarlet visor withdrawn to showcase concerned golden optics and large blue hands would massage his aching limbs and pull him against a strong frame in an embrace of warmth and security.

For some reason that was infinitely worse than the self-indulgent interfacing fantasies he’d allowed his recharging mind to conjure up involving the same mech.

“Meister?”

Jazz nearly slipped as he whirled around to face the owner of the familiar voice and his optics widened comically when he saw the glimmer of orange in the dim lighting. Odeon’s blue optics were concerned, large hands reaching out as if wishing to touch but refusing to do so.

The saboteur cringed. “Go away, Odeon.”

Odeon frowned slightly, taking a few hesitant steps forward before the smell finally assaulted him. Even through the clean smell of scalding solvent, the odor of fresh lubricants was undeniable and Odeon let out a small gasp of understanding.

“Oh,” he said, and he sounded sad.

Jazz grimaced. “I don’t need your pity,” he hissed, a little harsher than he intended. He ignored the way his optics roved over that strong orange frame, taking a suspiciously long glance at the closed orange panel just beneath his belly before whipping around to stare at the wall. Dammit, he didn’t need to think about that—

“You need to interface, don’t you?” Odeon’s voice sounded closer and as Jazz dared to glance over his shoulder, he noticed that those kind concerned blue optics were just a few feet away.

“Go back to your berth, Odeon.” Jazz susurrated desperately. “Please.”

For a moment, it looked like the mech would comply but like a stubborn aft he merely shook his head. A gentle but firm hand placed itself on Jazz’s back, in between his shoulder struts and the touch was as if someone had prodded him with a live wire. Electricity coursed through his frame, igniting every node and sensor directly underneath that warm hand currently rubbing small circles into his plating. Jazz vented heavily and he hated how good it fragging felt, how his body leaned into the touch and his engine purred in tandem with his kick started fans.

The unspoken offer lingered in the air and the saboteur wanted to give in but something was holding him back. He reasoned with the sentimental part of him that said it was his common courtesy; he’d been stringing this mech along for orns, using him as a clutch to stabilize his footing in the social hierarchy of the estate.

He didn’t care for the orange mech. And he attempted to make sure that he knew.

But before Jazz could open his mouth to speak, Odeon interrupted him with a small smile and a dip of his helm. “I know,” he breathed.

“You don’t.” Jazz retorted, shivering.

“I _do_ , Meister. I’m not blind. I’ve seen the way you look at me. You don’t love me, chances are you never will and it’s a bit painful but I respect your choice. Just how I respect your choice in keeping the youngling...despite the fact in how it was conceived.” Optic ridges furrowed slightly at the statement. “I can help you with this at least.”

Jazz would like to say he hesitated, that he mulled everything over and came to a conclusion with a cool and level head. But when had he ever been about making good decisions?

Odeon let out a small squeak of surprise when Jazz turned around and dark hands grabbed onto his shoulders and pulled him down to the saboteur’s level. The kiss was done for nothing other than propriety on Jazz’s behalf, chaste and wet, but Odeon reveled in it, his optics closing and a hum of appreciation coursing through his frame. A hand came up to cup the back of Jazz’s helm and the saboteur realized that if he closed his optics and lost himself to the sensation, it was easy to imagine it was someone else performing the act.

When he felt Odeon’s hands wander over his frame and his ministrations began to slow down, Jazz shook his helm and urged him to get to the point with a rather scandalous roll of his hips. There was no need to explore this new dynamic, after all. It was just business, a simple favor cashed between acquaintances.

Odeon was a fast learner. Jazz had to admire him for switching between the reverent lover he’d tried to be and the quick and clinical brute that currently had him pinned to the wet tile wall. The saboteur reveled in the roughness as he was pushed against the wall, large hands gripping his aft and hoisting him to level with the larger orange mech currently nipping at his neck cables. With a coordination that was unbecoming of two bots who’d never been acquainted like this before, Odeon’s spike slid home and Jazz let out an exaggerated sigh of relief as the ache in his valve was finally sated. Lithe legs wrapped around an orange waist and Jazz’s dark grey arms curled around Odeon’s neck, pressing them together and giving the orange mech all the control in the situation.

Jazz closed his optics as sharp thrusts jarred his entire frame, reveling in the carnal pleasure the act was bringing them both. He was quiet though, lips biting down on his lower lip so that only small grunts and nasal gasps escaped him. As the familiar ball of heat and pleasure coiled in his lower belly, Jazz withdrew into his thoughts in an attempt to block out the small whispers of adoration currently escaping the orange mech’s mouth.

It was instinctual because Odeon was a naturally giving person and Jazz didn’t hold it against him. But it still hurt to hear the poetry falling from his lips because the saboteur knew such flowery words would only fall on deaf audials.

When overload finally hit Odeon, he let out a strangled gasp and one hand left Jazz’s thigh to hold onto the wall as his knees threatened to give out under the wave of pleasure. It was the sensation of hot transfluid hitting his ceiling node that dragged Jazz right after him, lithe body arching slightly as his valve walls pulsed and greedily directed the charged fluid into his gestation chamber. It wasn’t a copious amount but it was certainly enough to satisfy Jazz’s internal systems but he made no move to disengage, hands and legs still wrapped around his new interfacing partner. Faceplates buried in the crook of Oden’s neck, Jazz felt the familiar burn of shame flooding his entire being, eliminating any chance of him enjoying the afterglow of what had been a textbook definition of a good overload. The steady stream of the solvent spray was the only thing masking their pants and huffs, though if any of the other bots were awake, they would no doubt be privy enough to what had occurred.

A warm cheek pressed against his audial, soft pants tickling the delicate sensors. “Meister...are you okay?”

Everyone had been asking that of him lately. First Radiance, then Aster when Jazz had accompanied him to the local market to retrieve some additives from a vendor and now Odeon. Granted the second time had been valid since Jazz had used the outing as an opportunity to test whether or not an old contact would follow through in sending a message along to Prowl, and he’d all but fainted from the anxiety.

This time, though, was different. Sure, he’d been caught in the middle of a betrayal enough times to know how to lie his way out of any tight corner but for the first time in his life, Jazz is unsure of who has betrayed who in this scenario. Logic dictated nobody but Odeon was wronged but even then, the orange mech had been a willing participant in the deception. A little too willing but who was he to judge?

A soft sigh escaped him and he unfurled, legs dropping to land on the wet floor and visor dimming as he struggled to turn off the solvent spray, which neither seemed to have noticed had gone cold.

A long silence passed between them, Odeon’s hands resting on Jazz’s shoulders and the saboteur leaning his helm against the broad chestplate in front of him, his own hands hanging limply at his sides.

“I’m fine,” Jazz murmured. “Just...a little shaken.”

Odeon replied. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” Jazz murmured, though they both knew it wasn’t directed at the exchange that they’d shared moments before. They were words carried on the wind, aimed at someone who wasn’t there. Glancing up, Jazz offered a tentative smile of gratitude. Of all the mechs his creation could find itself receiving from, Odeon was not the worst choice.

Even if he wasn’t the one the one his traitorous Spark was yearning for.

Before either could say anything, the sound of a shrill whistle alerted them to commotion in room next door and they hurriedly grabbed some towels and wiped themselves down before sneaking out to see what was happening. The lights were on and every bot was half sitting in their berths, some with the heels of their palms pressed against their optics while others frowned at being woken up so early.

At the forefront stood Aster, frame glimmering brightly and optics narrowed as he swept his gave over them all. “Get up!” He hissed, clapping his servos together to get any waking stragglers out of their recharge.  “All of you, get up and give your frames a proper cleaning. And wax yourselves if you can help it but do it swiftly.”

“Why the frag should we do that?” Crosswire whined, one hand rubbing furiously at his faceplates.

Aster ignored the blatant disrespect and replied. “Our guests have arrived,” he said sternly, hands clasped tightly in front of him. “Earlier than expected but that’s no matter. Our lord wants us all ready to assist and offer whatever services we can to them.”

“So much effort for just a couple bots?” A groggy voice muttered.

Aster sighed. “Not exactly. They brought guests themselves so banish any thoughts you have of slacking off. We have a very busy future ahead for us.” A quick snap of his fingers and he was suddenly heading back out the door from which he’d arrived. “Now get to it. You’re all needed in the foyer.”

It was amazing how quickly bots could move when a higher power called to them. Odeon helped Jazz through the barrage of stampeding bots, leading him to his own secluded bunk in the corner of the room. Already fresh from the washracks, they only needed a basic shine and Odeon proceeded to apply the sweet-smelling wax to Jazz’s frame with sure strong strokes of the small mesh cloth.

Jazz held still until he was done and with a few tricks of his own, Odeon was also done and they were among the first to exit and make their way to where they’d been summoned. Argyrus was already there, a bouncing Radiance loitering around his feet.

The youngling didn’t even let his attention linger on the dark grey mech when he came to stand on the opposite end of the meeting space, his gold optics brimming with excitement.

“Carrier is here!” He squeaked, reaching up to grab Argyrus’ hand in his and tugging it rather harshly. “Carrier is finally here!”

The green mech grimaced, snatching his hand back. “So, it would appear. Arriving at whatever ghastly hour she deems is perfect for herself.” The contempt dripped from every word and Jazz frowned, confused. Wasn’t the femme his conjunx?

The sound of multiple footsteps on the opposite side of the door sounded and a single knock permeated the air. Immediately, the door was opened and the dark doorway was alighted, but Argyrus quickly swooped in to greet and blocked Jazz’s view.

“My dear!” The green mech’s oily voice crooned, tone hypocritically sweet. Radiance disappeared between his sire’s legs and wrapped around a visible blue leg, squealing in delight.

A familiar voice let out a soft laugh and Radiance disappeared as he was scooped up. “Hello, love.” The bot in question stepped forth, brushing past Argyrus to step foot inside the estate. Jazz gawked.

It was the blue femme from the bonding party, the one that had accompanied Argyrus and said absolutely nothing during the entire event. Her blue lips were pulled into a soft smile as she coddled the blue youngling, nuzzling his cheek with her nose and kissing him softly.

Her green visor shone with adoration and in that moment, Jazz understood why Radiance had been so eager to see the femme make it home. She treated the tiny bot with a care and reverence that Argyrus never showed him, making him the center of her world for as long as he held him.

“Better not back out on my hug, little Radiance.” The deep voice broke through the happy reunion like an ion bullet, making the young bot in the femme’s grasp freeze for a moment before he let out a holler of surprise.

“Asynchronous!” Radiance cried and Jazz whipped his helm around in time to see a tiny red bot race through the door, colliding with the youngling that had been put down on to the floor to receive the newcomer. For a brief moment, Jazz assumed it was another youngling and the voice had belonged to one of the other mechs Argyrus was still in the middle of greeting.

But when they pulled back from their embrace, the difference was immediately noticeable. Radiance’s faceplates were soft and innocent and the red bot’s were chiseled and marred with scars. Bright yellow optics were lidded in amusement but the age and experience reflected in those depths was undeniable.

Jazz felt like his Spark stopped.

Symbiont. The tiny red bot was a _symbiont_.

Time froze. For a brief moment, Jazz forgot about the newcomers and focused on the door, Spark thudding in his chassis as he waited for someone else to step inside. He didn’t know what to expect but when Argyrus finally stepped aside and another bot entered, Jazz hoped for a large boxy blue frame and a searing scarlet visor. It wasn’t too far-fetched of an aspiration, after all; during the war, Soundwave had gotten various symbionts out of nowhere...maybe this one was a new addition.

The ludicrousness of the idea forming in his head was not lost on the saboteur, but in that moment, he couldn’t but help but hope. 

“Asynchronous!” The voice that called the red bot was not the monotone Jazz dreamed of, sounding deeper and slightly older. But his optics widened as he took in the frame of the mech it belonged to. Tall, boxy and with a clear plexiglass that made up a good portion of his chest. Deja vu hit Jazz like a runaway Astrotrain and it was only his eons of SpecOps training that he didn’t outright gasp and faint then and there.

That moment of pause allowed him to blink and take heed that the familiar frame wasn’t a deep dark blue. It was red, a bright vermilion that stood out among the muted colors of the estate. An orange visor hid his optics from sight and his smooth exposed lips were pulled back into a wide grin.

_A host mech._

_He was a host mech._

But that was impossible. Host mechs were extinct. Gone before the war; the only ones that existed were Blaster and--

“You’re no fun, Reverb.” The deep voice of the symbiont drawled, and Jazz froze as the familiar name echoed in his audials. The tiny red bot, a shade darker than his host, crossed his arms over his chest.

"Yeah!" Radiance echoed his disagreement. “No fun, Reverb.”

Jazz felt dizzy. Surely, this was all just some strange coincidence, right? It was his mind playing tricks on him. He’d been feeling guilty ever since he’d outright refused to tell anyone who the sire of his newspark was and that guilt had been festering inside him, growing and growing until it’d finally taken hold and his processor was playing tricks on him. He claimed to hate Soundwave and yet he obviously missed him so much that he was now seeing his doppelgangers everywhere.

Or maybe this was all a dream. He was asleep in his bunk right now and the guests hadn’t arrived yet.

“—Hello?”

The voice was the soft tone of a femme, deeper than the usual but it caught Jazz’s attention and he focused back on the present situation. A femme had sauntered up to him, her helm tilted to one side and lips pursed in displeasure.

Gold optics. Clear visor. And silver frame marred with dents and scrapes. Swallowing roughly, Jazz sneaked a glanced down and he felt a giddy giggle rising up in his chest when he saw the gun strapped to one of her thighs.

He knew this femme. He’d seen her before, back when he’d raided that frag bar and she’d sauntered up to him and told him scrap about intuition and philosophy.

Demaxx.

She was asking for a cube of coolant, rather brusquely and lacking the cordial demeanor she’d had when he’d been Ricochet. She didn’t recognize him.

“Hey, I’m asking for some coolant. You hearing me, mech?”

Jazz did. Loud and clear. But he couldn’t answer, couldn’t move. Optics wide, he glanced around and saw the mass of bots that had wandered in, all different shapes and sizes and colors. They were quickly melding together, and the world was spinning as if he’d been caught in the middle of a swirling kaleidoscope.

Optics rolled into the back of his helm before he could stop them and then there was nothing but darkness as he felt the tiny strands holding his mind and frame together snap and he was pulled into darkness.

Vaguely he heard Odeon’s surprised voice, and the lithe hands of the femme caressed his frame as they tried to grab him and stop him from falling onto the floor. Everyone was probably watching and he was powerless to do anything, a victim of his own frame.

He wasn’t a mech prone to fainting but he hadn’t exactly been sparked in the past either so he’d blame it all on that. That and the bitter disappointment curling around his Spark, it’s dark acrimonious taste marring his glossa and being the last thing his mind focused on before he fell into a deep dark void of merciful darkness.


	15. You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cybertron is changing and everyone struggles to come to terms with their own realities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. I deviated from my normal posting schedule and I apologize. But family dropped in announced from out of the country and I had to play the part of attentive hostess, which left little room for actual writing. 
> 
> Hopefully this long chapter makes up for the wait.

_“We loved with a_

_love that was more_

_than love.”_

 

—Edgar Allan Poe

 

“I can’t take this.”

Soundwave narrowed his optics behind his visor. “Query: why not?”

Swindle shrugged, turning off the datapad and sliding it across the table, back towards the telepath. “You want a list or the condensed version?”

“Condensed.” Soundwave said, his impatience evident in his tone.

The yellow mech sighed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. His purple optics roved over their quiet surroundings, narrowed as he mulled over his answer; he wasn’t one to doddle but when it came to Soundwave, it always helped to be thorough. But something flashed in his optics for a brief moment and he leaned towards Soundwave with his optics narrowed into near slits.

“Before I tell you that, answer me this. Why are you so desperate to get out of here?”

Here, obviously meant Iacon. The city-state had served as Soundwave’s abode ever since the war had ended, with Megatron and Optimus having allocated housing in the capital as an incentive for agreeing to the peace both leaders had settled on before any of their soldiers had been cognizant of the possibility. It had never been home, despite its commodity and accessibility, and Soundwave hadn’t allowed himself to become too attached.

But he wasn’t about to divulge any of that. Especially not to someone like Swindle who only sought whatever information he could for the sake of business and extortion rather than actual interest.

“Work, found in another city.” He replied simply, daring him to inquire further into the situation. “Relocation, necessary.”

Swindle grinned, one hand reaching up to cup his cheek. “Really? Now that’s interesting. Care to tell what ‘work’ we’re talking about here?”

“Negative.”

“Spoilsport.” Swindle frowned.

Soundwave didn’t dignify that retort with a response. Instead, he grabbed the offlined datapad and made a move to stand up. Immediately, Swindle’s carefree demeanor disappeared and he grabbed the edge of the datapad, anchoring Soundwave without touching him directly.

“Now, now. Let’s not be hasty.”

The telepath grimaced behind his mask. “Suggestion: let go.” The last glyph was more or less a guttural growl but Swindle was a mech that’d dealt with more intimidating clientele: mercenaries and murderers and offworlders that could very easily chew up Cybertronians without so much as blinking. He had a fearful respect of Soundwave but his desire to attain business and make credits overrode his own survival instincts in most cases.

Like now.

“Look,” The yellow mech said, letting go of the datapad once he was sure Soundwave wouldn’t make a break for it. “I’ve got a buddy that’s really invested in property sales. Real straight up bot that doesn’t really like doing things under the table but more by the book. Not a fan of his tactics since he really doesn’t have too many bots chasing after him but he gets the job done. You want to get rid of that little apartment of yours, go see him.”

Soundwave nodded minutely, listening. “Contact information?”

A small holographic card appeared between Swindle’s thumb and forefinger, and the yellow mech grinned. “Comm link and address. Be nice and give him a call before you show, y’know? He won’t be so inclined to offer you his services if you barge into his place during the time everyone’s supposed to be recharging.” He extended the card towards the blue mech, a twinkle of amusement in his optics.

Ignoring the quip, Soundwave took the card and gave it a cursory scan, documenting the information before subspacing it.

“Thank you.” He said for the sake of formality. Swindle grimaced slightly at his tone, his smile faltering.

“You’d think we’ve never seen each other face to face,” the merchant said. He shifted in his seat, arms crossing over each other on the surface and helm tilting to one side inquisitively. “You’ve always been cold, Soundwave but you’ve never given the Artic region of Earth a run for its money before.”

The telepath stiffened. “Swindle, impertinent. Suggestion, focus on own problems.” There was a note of finality in his tone, indicating that the conversation was over. Soundwave and Swindle had never been anything more than acquaintances and though they had both been involved in an uncharacteristic groping session when the high grade had flowed a little too freely but Soundwave had assumed all misgivings had been cast aside.

Judging the current air in the atmosphere, Swindle obviously hadn’t let it go. It wasn’t love or even attraction, of that much the telepath was sure of, but more of a morbid fascination with Soundwave’s interfacing capabilities that had little to no information circling about it. The merchant was looking to gain some information: nothing more, nothing less.

An amusing and futile sentiment but Soundwave had bigger matters to worry about. This conversation had lasted far longer than he’d ever wanted it to and now he was late.

Turning on his heels, the telepath made his way through the small bar and exited. The cool air of Iacon met his senses and he inhaled softly, a small part of him noting that he’d miss the clean air that didn’t threaten to clog his vents every time he went outside. But cool clean air was not worth throwing away everything he’d been investing in so with that in mind, he made his way through the busy streets until he finally arrived at his apartment. The door opened to reveal the polished frames of Rumble and Frenzy, both of which had rather somber looks on their faces.

He ignored them.

“Rumble. Frenzy: report.” He said, listening to their tiny footsteps as they followed him to the office he had in the back of the establishment. Laserbeak was already there, perched on a console and tapping away at a datapad.

She gave a soft chirr in greeting, tilting her helm up to receive a small affectionate rub near the base of her beak. Unlike his other symbionts, Laserbeak thrived on affirmation and tactile interaction and Soundwave found it to be little chore to indulge her. Rumble and Frenzy transformed and settled into his chassis, sending all the data of their reconnaissance to him via their quantum bond.

Soundwave proceeded to settle into his chair in tandem to the download and plugged into the console, years of practice making the connection smooth and seamless. Within kliks, he was inside the DataNet, the communications network that spanned all of Cybertron and served as the primary server for information travel. He tapped into the latest newscast, listening intently as he heard reports about rising unrest in less developed areas, Energon shortages and the occasional talk show host complaining about things that had simple solutions and little relevance to the overall population.

Intriguing things but not what he was looking for. He set up another layer of filtering, taking out the necessary wavelengths and focusing instead on the transmissions that were coming out of police channels and encrypted broadcasts via the official Assembly server; he was careful not to leave a trail for espionage was the first thing that had been listed as a punishable offense when the new governmental system had been implemented. As a mech that had all but set the foundation for communications for espionage, pushing the technological front of what their own species were capable of, he really didn’t have to go through so much trouble to remain incognito but the subject of his search was something he couldn’t afford having traced back to him.

He’d gone over the live feeds of the attack on Optimus and Megatron, mulling over each individual frame and pixel for hours and hours on end. During the first few hundred passes, things had seemed normal. The attack had caught everyone by surprise, a few brave officers were gunned down and the infamous saboteur of the former Autobot army had been killed protecting his former commander.

But something had seemed off. It’d started out as a feeling, something minute that gnawed at his vitals until he’d been kept awake with promise of recharge kicked out of the realm of possibility. So he’d gone over them again. Again. And again. And again.

Until finally, he saw it.

Prowl.

As the chief tactician of his faction’s oppositional force, Soundwave had dedicated eons to studying the elusive black and white Praxian. Under the cover of disasters and endless night cycles, Soundwave’s symbionts had infiltrated the bunkers and outposts Prowl had graced with his presence, recovering bits of data that were slowly converged together to create a working personality file. He knew everything, from his likes and dislikes, interfacing habits, verbal and physical tics to even the name of his nameless creators that’d been killed during the fall of Praxus.

Granted, most of that information was probably obsolete now, but physical tics were something bots never truly displaced. In fact, their visibility was increased exponentially during peacetime, where sounds and sights triggered reactions that brought out the trauma all war-conflicted bots carried within them.

Prowl’s biggest ones were his doorwings.

He was situated near the front of the stage beside a silver mech Soundwave recognized as his lieutenant, posture straight as he observed the influx of arriving spectators. Near the last moment, he stiffened minutely and his doorwings had hiked up slightly as if in anticipation before remaining there in what was an obvious display of displeasure.

Someone had contacted him about something and he’d gone backstage, reappearing moments later behind Optimus and Megatron to take his usual position upfront. The telepath had attempted to find any available feeds in the room the two leaders had been residing in but he’d only been able to get close enough to see the entrance to the room, which had been guarded by a rather impatient looking Sideswipe. No voices were picked up and when everyone had emerged, Prowl had looked somber.

As if he’d relented to some unfortunate misgiving.

For a moment, Soundwave had thought Prowl had known something but when Jazz had been shot...there had been nothing but horror and fear in those normally calm blue optics.

And when Jazz’s body had been wheeled away, Prowl had displayed something else that made Soundwave’s tanks churn in distaste.

Guilt.

But about what? Soundwave had few resources that could answer the question. After his disastrous encounter with Optimus, he’d been careful not to make his presence known among his former comrades and Autobots. The Prime had kept the encounter to himself, since there was no murderous warlord bashing down his door and screaming for his Energon and the communication lines yielded no tabloid headlines of anyone having attacked the Prime during his stay in the cathedral.

Soundwave had let his emotions get the better of him that time. This time, however, would be different. He’d moved on, mourned and grieved and made peace with the past. But the final piece that would allow him to turn the chapter on the single aspect of his life that refused to let go of his subconscious was still missing.

He’d find out who was responsible for Jazz’s demise. And then he was leaving Iacon behind. For good. There was nothing to tether him here; he’d never fought for a world built for others, after all. His main motivation, his only motivation, had been to create a world where his symbionts could live peacefully.

And that goal had been achieved.

His mind and frame required activity, something the mundane job he had in Crystal City could never truly offer. His prototype for the surveillance mission had been completed; it sat on a tiny dataslug in his subspace, ready to be given and implemented at any Spark’s content. It would, in retrospect, be the legacy Soundwave was leaving behind. Other than the completion of this personal side mission.

“You make it sound like you’re about to die.” The rough voice of Ravage cut through his musings and he leaned back in his chair, directing some of his attention through his optical sensors to observe the feline currently loitering around his pedes. Rumble and Frenzy sent pulses of warmth in greeting towards their oldest sibling.

“Ravage.” Soundwave intoned, letting her comment slide. “Report.”

The ebony symbiont let out a small yawn, back arching slightly and nails peeking out in a display that was an amusing imitation of an Earth feline. “Nothing much,” she said softly. “Security around the place is as concrete as it was before. You can sneak into the place but they’ve got both of the mercenaries in the interrogation rooms under close surveillance.”

Soundwave grimaced. In other words, there would be no way of getting to them without making his presence known. He asked his oldest symbiont for the two prisoners’ identities and she let out a small huff of frustration.

“Neo and Nea. Low level mercenaries who usually stuck to extortion and small-time robberies. They’re wanted on Pova for fraud.” She shrugged one shoulder. “From what I could glean, murder isn’t exactly in their repertoire.”

“A setup?” Laserbeak chirped suddenly, having been listening quietly and intently to the exchange prior to her input. Soundwave hated how quickly he agreed with the statement but nothing else was making any sense.

“Possibly,” Ravage said, voice softer. “Or maybe someone gave them a big enough pay grade to make them want to take the job in the first place. Wouldn’t be the first time a merc’s strayed from their advertised skill set.”

“But why?” Laserbeak retorted, confusion and desperation in her trill. “Why now?” _Why Jazz?_ Was the unspoken question in her tone and everyone in the room stiffened, the emotional weight of it heavy upon all their shoulders. Soundwave paused for a brief moment but quickly regained his composure.

Frenzy asked for permission to undock and Soundwave acceded, opening his compartment and allowing the small red and black biped to emerge. Gracefully, the symbiont landed on his knee, sitting down with his back to his host mech.

“I think we’re looking at this from the wrong angle.” He said, lips pursed into a grim line.

“How so?” Ravage asked, head tilted to one side as she sat up in attention.

Hesitating, the red and black symbiont cast a glance at Soundwave and the telepath frowned as he felt the guilt gnawing at Frenzy’s end of the bond. Leaning forward, he asked. “Frenzy?”

Frenzy sighed. “You already know what I’m going to say.” There was a small spark of anger in his field, as if he hated the fact that everyone was forcing him to speak the words that had been lurking underneath every single one of their subconscious. It was far-out, absurd but eons of never assuming had not let them rule the possibility out of question.

“No.” Soundwave said but his voice lacked the fire they’d expected. It was soft, sad and heavy with resignation. “It is not.”

Ravage leaned her head up to rest it on Soundwave’s leg, “Are you sure?”

 _Yes,_ Soundwave wanted to say. _He was._ But his lips hadn’t even opened before he found his vocalizer failing him and only brief spurts of static escaped him. Snapping his mouth shut, he turned to look away, suddenly wrought with uncertainty. Was it possible? Had he been looking in the wrong direction all this time when the real masterminds behind everything had been lurking right underneath his noseplate?

 _No._ That small voice in the back of his processor was insistent. _It can’t be._

It was his loyalty coding speaking, that troublesome part of him that had been ingrained since his day of conception and driven his actions through the various periods of tumult in his life. Once upon a time, it’d been altered to be a bastardized version of the slave coding that had been instilled into the lower caste bots of the gladiator pits and the courtesans of the former Senators, to name a few.

A near death experience had freed him from its clutches, and while it could never truly be erased from his frame, he was (at the very least) capable of questioning it and acting against it if he so chose. It hurt but Soundwave valued his free-thinking capabilities more than the comfort of having some line of code dictating how he should react in different scenarios.

This was one of the cases that he was questioning it. And though it wasn’t the first, it was perhaps the one that hurt the most. Because this time he was questioning everything that had made him the bot that he was today; in a sense, he was questioning himself. And that uncertainty, that lack of knowing what to do and who to attack, to blame...was difficult.

“You’re not alone,” Ravage purred, the rumbling in her frame translating to him via the point of contact. “You have us.”

Yes, that was true.

Though Frenzy refused to look him in the optic now and Laserbeak was a constant beacon of sadness, they all kept their ends of the bond with him strong and resolute. He took comfort and strength in that.

Whatever turned out to be the truth, they would remain the constants he could turn to. And it was up to him to be the source of resolution that they relied on. So he let out a small huff and nodded.

“Affirmative.” He replied, a slight smile in his voice. And with that in mind, he focused on the console in front of him and got back to work.

 

~~~

Hardtop was having an amiable day.

His frame was clean and polished, valve aching pleasantly from having been used quite profusely during the night cycle and a smile was lighting up his faceplates. A couple bots sneered at him as he made his way through the gleaming streets of Praxus, finding his ungraceful gait and demeanor a stark contrast to the cleanliness and order of the reconstructed city-state. No one could directly tell that he was a pleasurebot but it was a little more than obvious that he wasn’t from around here.

But that was just fine. He wasn’t interested in getting to know anyone here, no matter how keen he was on finding out exactly whether or not rumors of Praxian anatomy and interfacing habits rang true.

He had a job to do, after all.

Finding the small confectioneries store was rather easy and he smiled as he caught a whiff of the tangy Energon goodies the place was so well known for; it made his mouth water and when he finally found himself in front of the quaint little store, he had no hesitation on striding on inside.

It was empty, not a surprise since it wasn’t rush hour yet, but the mech at the counter wasn’t too offput by the lack of clients. Glancing up, he offered a kind smile, forced but genuine enough to sate Hardtop’s need for hospitality.

“Heya.” He said, waving.

The mech nodded, “Hello.” He paused, optics narrowing as he regarded the green mech before they lit up in recognition. “Oh! I remember you!”

Hardtop executed a rather dramatic bow. “I’m the one who gave you scrap for not stocking up on rust sticks.” A sharp glint flashed across his optics as he righted himself, hands clasped behind his back as he came up to the counter and leaned up to look over the pearl white surface. “I’m afraid I’m here to do the same again this time.”

The cashier’s optic ridges knitted together obstinately. “Oh. Same order?”

The green mech nodded. “Yep. Different recipient, though.”

A sigh and then a datapad was subspaced, stylus tip poised over the blank screen. “Name and place?”

Hardtop grinned. “It’s Meister and the location is U-“ The sound of the entrance bell cut the green mech off mid-sentence and he whipped his head around to stare at the new arrivals, former SpecOps routines flaring to life habitually.

He immediately froze, optics widening slightly as he saw who it was.

The red and blue frames of the two minibots glistened in the bright light and their matching red visors glanced around with familiarity before the sauntered up to stand beside Hardtop. They paid him no heed as they stared up at the cashier, hands on their hips.

At once, the bored demeanor of the cashier disappeared and he smiled knowingly. “Be right with you,” he said. His attention returned to Hardtop, who quickly slipped back to his usual cheery façade.

“Your order?” He asked again. “I didn’t quite get the name or the location.”

Hardtop hesitated, “Oh, uh...” he glanced at the two symbionts and gestured towards them with his chin. “Let them go first. I need to check the details I have to make sure they’re correct.”

Rumble and Frenzy stared at him oddly but shrugged in tandem and proceeded to place their own orders. “We’d like some of those spicy Energon gummies, the ones with the crushed crystals on top.”

At once, the demeanor of the cashier brightened. “Ah, so you’ve heard of these, have you? Praxus is known for these. The crystals used only grow in the gardens of this city.”

Rumble grumbled, “Yeah, yeah. We’ve heard. Can we just get our order please?”

The rude dismissal of the cashier’s pride did little to belittle the smile on the mech and he quickly grabbed a small carton box and proceeded to fill it with the amount Frenzy directed. In little time, they received their order, paid and were out the door. Hardtop watched them go, careful to appear nonchalant before stepping back to his place.

“Are you ready now?”

Hardtop nodded, his turn now to have a forced smile. “Yeah...though I’d like to add in something extra to the order.” He raised a finger and waggled it in the air. “One of those spicy Energon goodies. In the center of the box if you don’t mind.”

“Uh-huh.” The cashier replied, writing it down. “Name and place?”

Hardtop grinned. “Meister. And the confectionery chef named Iota in Uraya, if you don’t mind.”

“There’s an extra cost for commercial business transactions.”

Hardtop shrugged. “I’m willing to pay it. I just need it to get there.” It was obvious the mech wasn’t happy to hear his order would be going to another business locale but nothing in their services stopped their customers from being free to send their treats wherever they chose.

But the mech did as he was told and when Hardtop paid and made his way back outside, he regretted the whole ordeal almost immediately.

This had been such a quaint little place. Easy to access with an oblivious enough staff that wouldn’t notice the transactions going on under their noses. But alas, plans rarely went as they should.

Hardtop just hoped Jazz was ready to adapt to the new situation that had arisen.

 

~~~

 

Jazz was in deep slag.

Honestly, there was no obscenity crude enough to describe just how royally he’d had messed up and he’d wanted to do nothing more than jump into the first smelting pit he came upon and let the Unmaker be the judge of him. But he wasn’t one to run away when things got hard or he’d made a complete fool of himself, it just wasn’t in his nature.

The entire estate had no doubt heard how the newly sparked lowly servant had fainted in the middle of a welcoming committee, right in front of all the guests and in the middle of attending to one, to make things worse. Jazz remembered nothing from the encounter, having woken up in one the spare rooms in the chambers that housed personal retainers. The berth was lavish and comfy and for a brief moment, the saboteur had roused believing he was anywhere but the estate of a representative that was under investigation.

Aster had grunted and pulled Jazz out of his momentary bliss and upon locking optics with the white mech, Jazz had felt his Energon run cold in his lines. He’d froze, completely awake and wary. Argyrus’ personal retainer was furious and he’d made sure that Jazz knew that he’d made a complete and utter fool of not only himself but of the lord as well. If it’d been up to either of them, Jazz would’ve been kicked out onto the streets but only the lord’s conjunx’s compassion had kept Jazz under their employment.

“Rethelia was most gracious,” Aster had hissed through clenched dentae, truly furious. “She’s the one that had you brought into this room, where you will remain indefinitely until your...condition runs its course.” He grimaced, “But you’re barred from any of the duties that involve you catering towards our guests. The last thing our lord wants is for you to embarrass him even more than you already have.”

Condition? _Oh._ Jazz had grimaced, truly ashamed. He’d been hoping to keep his condition on the down low, as much as a secret as was possible in a place such as this, but it seemed that angle was out the door. Not only was he in dishonor but now everyone knew he was a useless carrier, to be coddled and monitored.

He’d have a hell of a time sneaking around now. He’d written the book on how to be a successful undercover operative and he’d gone and screwed everything up, breaking the very first rule: don’t bring attention to yourself. It was the worst possible thing that could happen to one in his position, to be unable to move about with the freedom required to glean any information. If the world didn’t think he was already dead, he would very soon be if he didn’t get his act together.

But Jazz had little time to kick himself over his newbie failure. So much had occurred in the past few orns that had him thinking and mulling every klik he found himself alone with his thoughts.

Guests were not unusual, especially not for someone deep in the social hierarchy of Cybertron’s budding economy. Jazz hadn’t thought too much about them, assuming that they were going to be another tycoon that Argyrus would have to kiss the aft of to make some sleazy business transaction break through.

But it turned out to be anything but.

Demaxx’s presence was the first thing that had told him off of the situation, more so than the presence of host mechs and symbionts. The femme was a former Autobot, a low-ranked soldier whose only recognition throughout the war had been in the form of a military court-marshal she’d tried to push upon one of her former commanders, whom she blamed for the deaths of her comrades that’d been in the middle of a delicate infiltration operation before a premature airstrike order had leveled the place they’d been in. The case, like most of their kind, had been thrown out and Demaxx had disappeared like all of those not of the higher levels of command. Her files were public record for someone of Jazz’s capabilities and the saboteur never imagined he’d have to tap into that fountain of information after his encounter with her in Uraya.

She wasn’t directly acquainted with the family of the estate and her record spoke of someone who had been disillusioned with the Autobot command structure during the war, something that was hard to overlook when the former Autobot commander was currently heralding the government that ruled over their planet to the day.

The other thing that obviously told Jazz something wasn’t right, was the presence of so many bots that were obviously not of noble or high-level social circles. Even if he was barred from working with the guests directly, Jazz was still able to catch a glimpse or two of a few as he did his own menial tasks around the estate.

There were a few heavily built construction bots, with rusted frames and heavily etched lines on faces that spoke of eons of turmoil and hard work. A few minibots loitered around the halls, some obvious war veterans while a few showcased the newness and innocence of Sparks created during peacetime. It was a melting pot, bots that Jazz knew Argyrus would never willingly welcome into his abode unless there was a legitimate reason.

It wasn’t hard to pinpoint what it was. Or, what they were.

Rethelia and Reverb.

Jazz had rarely seen them in person after his shameful blunder in the foyer but it was easy to listen in on the estate scuttlebutt that the other servants indulged in during mealtimes and breaks. Both bots were siblings, borne of the same batch with a rumor circulating that they were split sparks that had managed to mature enough to be their own individual frames without a bond keeping them tethered.

They were also host mechs, obviously, and they’d each amassed quite the small army of wayward symbionts during their travels across the universe and on Cybertron. Those little cretins, Jazz had seen more than once. They paraded around the vents and halls like glitchmice, sneaking into the servants’ quarters and adding paint nanites to the cleansers or dragging down the clean berth sheets into the gardens and tying them up in the mechanical flora for giggles and fits. There was always a different one during each prank and Jazz had counted about ten or twelve before another blue one had popped up in his berth chambers, accidentally waking him up mid-recharge as she attempted to draw something on his faceplates with a stylus dipped in black waxing solution.

Jazz knew if his feet hadn’t gotten caught up in the sheets he would’ve caught the little heathen and possible strangled her into offlining. He blamed it on his carrying state, these wayward emotions, but it was a strong possibility that he was actually going a bit crazy.

Rethelia seemed to be painted as the epitome of beauty and compassion, an opposite that helped balance Argyrus’ selfish and brute demeanor. Reverb was the lively social butterfly that counteracted Rethelia’s soft-spoken nature, a perfect balance that was as intriguing as it was unbelievable.

Jazz tried not to dwell on them more than he needed to, especially when it came to Reverb. It was hard to imagine the red host mech without immediately comparing him to the only other host mech Jazz had the mental capacity to think about nowadays. Even if their personalities were different, their appearances made the saboteur think that there was a possible connection lingering that he just hadn’t caught onto.

Of course, there was always the possibility that the parallels were just coincidences but Jazz had learned a long time ago that there was no such thing.

He needed to tell Prowl. And Optimus. He had no solid evidence that they were related to the bombing and murder of Pion but he had a gut feeling that there was something off about them; that in itself was reason enough.

It would no doubt bring Soundwave under suspicion, but Jazz couldn’t allow himself to care. He cared more about Cybertron, about the few close friends’ whose lives hung in the balance, than for the mech that had gotten him sparked up and then tossed him away like a used mesh cloth. Sure, he was going through the trouble of carrying his creation but that didn’t mean there was any emotional connection lingering between them. The bitlet, for all the connection it had to the former communications officer, would have nothing to do with its sire.

Not if Jazz had anything to do with it. A dark hand lay over his still flat ventrum, tentative but tinged with the saboteur’s dry affection, silently reassuring.

Glancing down at the small datapad in his hand, the saboteur took heed of his next task and quickly made his way to the kitchens, where he came upon Odeon and a couple other mechs currently working to crush crystal into a fine refractive dust, preparations for the dinner that had been planned as a sort of welcome occasion for the guests. Kind blue optics lifted from their task to settle on the saboteur and Jazz made a beeline for the spot that Odeon opened up beside him.

“Meister,” Odeon murmured, brushing against him briefly.

Jazz’s smile was genuine. “Odeon. Sorry, I’m late.”

A few of the other bots grumbled but the two bots ignored them. Odeon had become a beacon of security for Jazz, a constant that the he could rely on to help him when he needed. Granted, it probably had to do with the fact that they were interfacing partners but Jazz liked to think that there was some basis in friendship cementing their relationship. The orange mech was simple; nice, generous and attentive and Jazz found it was easy to like him. It was him that Jazz directed some of his more intrusive questions, feigning curiosity and lack of intuitiveness when his queries bordered on being too bold. Odeon was kinder about reminding him that it wasn’t good to ask too many questions, that it wasn’t their place to question.

Jazz didn’t care much for those warnings but he pretended to. He was quick to catch onto how the crystals were to be crushed and fell into an easy rhythm, finding the minute task soothing despite its mundaneness. For the most part, nobody said a word and as Jazz watched the time tick by while he helped in the kitchens preparing the meal, he kept reworking the plan he had to eavesdrop on the conversation.

He wasn’t particularly light on his feet anymore but he could sneak through a vent easily enough without raising an alarm. He’d planted a makeshift bug on the dining table but that only worked so well and the saboteur wasn’t too keen on depending on it.

Someone tapped him on his shoulder at the end of his shift, right when he’d been making his exit. He turned around to find the familiar presence of Odeon and he frowned upon seeing the odd paleness to his faceplates.

“Meister,” he said and his voice was raspy.

“What is it?” Jazz asked, concerned.

The orange mech let out a dreary sigh. “My Energon ration tasted kinda funny,” he said softly, wincing and pressing the heel of his palm to one of his optics. “I think it wasn’t filtered correctly or something. But...I’m not feeling well. And I need to rest so I don’t think I’ll be able to attend the evening dinner.”

The saboteur frowned at the implications, though his Spark pulsed in anticipating of the possibilities. “But I’ve been barred from attending the guests directly.”

A small huff and Odeon nodded. “True. But no one wants to take my place. And Aster’ll be too busy to take heed of your presence. Just don’t faint again, yeah?”

Jazz’s optic ridges furrowed. “Okay. But go see Jespa first, okay? I don’t want you collapsing or anything on me, you hear.”

The saboteur watched with pursed lips as Odeon disappeared out of the kitchens. Immediately, Jazz made his way to the antechamber that connected to the dining room and found a small bundle of servants preparing to enter with a closed serving tray in their arms. One tray remained on a table off to the side and Jazz immediately went for it, loitering in the back of the line while trying to figure out exactly what the procedure was; a mech that Jazz dind’t know the name of came up to him, a trolley in tow.

“You’re Meister, right?”

Jazz nodded.

“Okay, so you’ll be the one serving the main course. Just wait for everyone with the trolleys to serve the appetizers and drinks and then you follow Crosswire here and serve the guests. You’re serving...” A quick check underneath the silver covering and he nodded, “Reverb. He’s the bot on Argyrus’ left side. After you’re done, come straight back here, understand?”

Scrap. Jazz could do nothing but nod, internally cursing his rotten luck. Of all the mechs he had to find himself in the company of, it just had to be Reverb. He let himself wallow in anxiety for a few kliks before taking a deep invent and reminding himself of what was at stake, of the realities that would come to pass if he wasn’t careful. That was enough to center himself and the saboteur adopted a neutral expression, all of his focus being on keeping himself together.

Right now, he couldn’t afford to make any more mistakes.

In front of him, Crosswire turned to regard him over his shoulder and he frowned in apprehension. “Where’s Odeon?” He whispered, confused.

Jazz shrugged, aiming for a smile and falling short. “He wasn’t feeling well. He asked me to fill in for him.” If the saboteur saw the look of disbelief and shock that crossed the mech’s face, he pretended not to notice but neither had time to dwell on it when Aster came in to announce that the serving would begin.

The serving process began rather slowly, the gentle murmurs and occasional laughs from the assorted guests being the only thing that let Jazz know that there were even bots in the adjacent room. Important guests and the owners of the estate were the first to be given their meals and Jazz was careful to keep his head down when his turn came to serve his designated guest.

Reverb was lounging in his chair, legs crossed and one arm lounging on the back of his chair. His orange visor shone brightly, twinkling every time he laughed and those exposed lips of his curved into easy smiles and grins as he listened to something Rethelia said. He was the epitome of relaxation, a direct contrast to the stiff posture of Argyrus and the politeness of Rethelia, who sat opposite the vermilion mech. On Rethelia’s end of the table sat a bot that Jazz didn’t recognize, and the seating arrangement was pretty much the same until a flash of silver caught his attention and he found himself looking at the golden optics of Demaxx.

She was balancing her cube of glowing Energon in between her fingers, swirling the liquid around with an air of distaste, her gaze brightening with brief amusement when she caught sight of him. Lips twitching into the start of a smile, she dipped her head, as if acknowledging that she remembered him.

Jazz didn’t think too much of it. Of course, she’d remember him; he’d offlined in front of her without so much as a warning. Quite the first impression, even for a servant.

His feet directed him towards Reverb, and he was careful not to do anything that would draw attention to himself as he set the plate down in front of the mech. He didn’t dare breathe, or glance up at anything other than the silver covering he’d be removing once everyone got their meal and Aster announced it was time for the reveal. His hands clasped tightly in front of him and his helm bowed, Jazz felt the burning gazes of Rethelia and Argyrus, causing his plating to prickle and his Sparkbeat to quicken but he kept his outer façade neutral.

He wasn’t going to mess this up.

For a moment, it seemed that Jazz would go about unnoticed, at least no more than he had, and he relaxed as soon as Aster said it was time to unveil each guest’s portion and the saboteur seamlessly leaned forward to grasp the top of the silver plate covering.

But he hadn’t even grazed it when a large black hand appeared out of nowhere and beat him to the punch, snatching the covering away and revealing the processed Energon goodies with various fillings and flakes. Jazz immediately froze, slowly turning his helm to glance at the vermilion mech from the corner of his optics.

It didn’t escape his notice that the chatter permeating the air had dwindled down to whispers and muffled mutters, most aimed at the pair of them and the spectacle they were no doubt creating.

Twirling the covering in one hand, Reverb grinned at Jazz, helm tilted to one side. “I know you.” He said, voice smooth and serene.

The saboteur swallowed roughly, not trusting his own voice. Battle systems whirred to life, the hum barely audible over the sound of his fans that he hadn’t noticed until now had been whirring hard enough to make his entire frame vibrate slightly. Could the mech read his thoughts like Soundwave? He knew little of the host mechs outside of his interactions with Blaster and Soundwave, but he knew that telepath among them was more common than one believed. Jazz immediately began to recite the Povian alphabet in his head, hoping the complicated process would distract the mech if for nothing more for a second.

Stopping his handling of the cover, Reverb turned it over in his hand and extended it towards Jazz, handle aimed in his direction. “You’re the servant who fainted when Demaxx got all up in your face, didn’t you?”

Laughter and forced guffaws broke through the uncomfortable tension in the room and as Jazz relaxed and dared himself to glimpse, he saw Demaxx punch a mech in the shoulder with a grimace on her face. But she held his attention for no more than an astrosecond before Reverb let out a heavy sigh of relief, the kind bots normally reserved for when they’ve had a good laugh and Jazz’s focus was directed only towards him.

Jazz took hold of the cover and bowed swiftly, intending to make his exit but Reverb held onto the end of it with surprising strength, considering it was only being pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

The saboteur resisted the urge to grimace, all apprehension about the mech disappearing in the wake of his obvious lack of decorum. It contradicted with the stoic silence of Soundwave and it was becoming increasingly easy to differentiate the two despite the obvious parallels in their physical appearance.

“Apologies,” Jazz said softly, hoping he sounded more meek than annoyed. “But I must return to my post.” He gave the handle another unsuccessful tug and waited.

Argyrus let out a scoff of disgust. “Let the blasted servant take the damned thing, Reverb.” he hissed, rich oily voice dripping acid with each word. “You’re not a youngling.”

Rethelia’s gentle rumble of a laugh interrupted him. “If only that were true. My brother may be in his adult frame but I’m afraid his processor and Spark never reached full maturity.”

Reverb rolled his optics, “Here we go again with that slag. If not being a stiff and stuck up bot such as yourselves makes me a youngling, then slag, I’m a youngling.” He pointed an accusatory finger at the blue femme, who smiled in turn. “Remember, Re, I’m older than you are.”’

The femme gave her glowing yellow cube a dainty sip. “How could I ever forget?”

Reverb turned his orange visor towards the saboteur, a grin playing on the lips visible below the orange refractive glass obscuring his optics. “I like you,” he announced, letting go of the cover and very nearly sending Jazz stumbling back onto his aft. “I’d like for you to be my attending for the evening.”

Argyrus gaped. “But, Reverb--!”

The host mech raised a hand to silence him, shaking his helm in admonishment. “Now, now, Argy. I know you’re feeling like a piece of slag for having sparked up this poor little mech and being unfaithful to my dear sister, but do try to be civilized about this. I want him serving my drink for the rest of the meal.” The light across the orange visor dimmed into a thin line as he stared the saboteur down. “Think you can handle that, Meister?"

Jazz didn’t dare question how he knew his name already. “It would be my pleasure, sir.” He bowed a bit more than was necessary and stood up to trade his silver platter covering for the elegant crystal vase holding the yellow liquid that Reverb and his compatriots had been drinking. The retainer Jazz switched with gave him a dirty look but Jazz didn’t care.

He’d just had a stroke of fortunate luck; he internally preened as he retreated to the wall behind him and stood poised and attentive, ready to react whenever his guest asked for a refill. Argyrus was giving him a horrible glare, scarlet optics brimming with disgust and Jazz couldn’t resist smiling. Turning his helm to the floor, he subtly placed a hand over his ventrum and gave it a reverent caress that would no doubt have the representative seething in rage.

The hiss that sounded was almost animalistic and Jazz resisted the urge to grin as the conversation around the table picked up in tempo and volume as everyone finally dug into their portions.

“So,” Reverb’s deep voice drawled, sounding over the din of the dinner conversation after a few comfortable kliks had dragged by. He lifted his fork and pointed it at Argyrus, waving the skewered red Energon jelly in the green mech’s direction before plunging it into his own mouth. “How goes life as an esteemed member of our planet’s Assembly, brother o’ mine?”

Argyrus grimaced, finishing his own bite before replying. “Troublesome. Nothing but idiots thrown together with no understanding of politics or the value of a strong global economy.”

The red host mech giggled. “Being a politician isn’t as easy as you thought it’d be, is it?”

“The process is exceedingly simple. It’s the insipid nature of the bots I begrudgingly call my colleagues that make it more difficult than it has to be.” He huffed. “We’re currently at a standstill because the scientific cities wish to devote more time to their precious research and those of us hoping to divert the funds to more capitalistic venues are left to suffer in the wake of their inflated egos. As if science is going to save this wretched excuse for a government.”

Rethelia and Reverb nodded as if in understanding, taking a few astroseconds to get in a couple more bites of their food before turning their attention back to the green mech. “What about the Prime?” Reverb asked, and had Jazz not been listening he would’ve assumed from his tone that he’d asked about something simple, like the color of the sky or whether or not the food was good.

“An idiot.” Argyrus replied, wasting no time in sullying the title. “It’s a miracle he hasn’t plunged this planet into civil war all over again.”

“I thought public opinion of him had been growing in the past decaorns,” Rethelia murmured over the rim of her cube. “Especially after...that incident that occurred during his last public outing.”

Jazz’s optic ridges furrowed slightly, audials dialed up to their highest sensitivity setting.

“Do you mean the one where that little bot was killed? Jeep or Jax, I can’t remember his name, was shot dead trying to save his leader.” The smile in Reverb’s voice was unnerving. “But how could they not love a leader who showcases resiliency after the felling of one of his former commanding officers? Be still, my gentle Spark, for you long to burst for love and admiration for a bot whose ineptitude cost the life of someone he supposedly valued.”

Silence met his words from his conversation partners and Reverb took that opportunity to stand up and address the bots assembled further along the table. “Mechs! Femmes! Care to indulge my curiosity and answer a question for me?"

A ripple of head nods swept through them all almost immediately.

“Have any of you had bots who died for you?” The question was blunt, crude and for a moment Jazz expected the other guests to stare in confusion at their host. But to his surprise, they quickly responded to his question, not a single look of perplexity visible among the sea of faces.

Demaxx was the first to raise her hand, her face stony. Reverb pointed at her, nodding in appreciation before proceeding to do the same for every single bot that mimicked the gesture in acknowledgment. Jazz realized that every single bot had their hand up.

“And how many of you felt you deserved recognition for the sacrifice of another?”

Silence but all hands fell down in tandem, until there was nothing but a harsh terse air lingering around them. Had Jazz not been empathetic to the questions at hand, he would’ve noticed sooner that Reverb was now shaking in anger as he sat back down, arms crossing over his chest as he regarded Argyrus and his sister. “See?”

“Bias.” The green mech grimaced. “You ask a band of thieves and murderers if they’ve seen death and every single one will answer in affirmation.”

“Don’t belittle the occupations of these fine bots,” Reverb crooned, shaking his helm. “Remember, they’re the ones doing all the dirty work that you’re too squeamish to do yourself.”

Jazz felt something different ripple through the air, a sour tang on his glossa that he realized was coming from Reverb’s flaring EM field. He was only vaguely aware of it, his processor whirring as he took in every single little relevant detail in the conversation. Murders and thieves, for example, indicated that the bots assembled were mercenaries.

But what was the dirty work that Reverb was talking about? Did it relate to Pion’s death? The explosion of his estate? Or hell, the _threat against the Assembly_?

Argyrus shook his helm vehemently as the weight of all the attention on him finally did its job in unsettling him. “I’m...grateful.” He hissed through clenched dentae. “For your assistance.”

Jazz’s optics widened at the submissive admission.

“—But I have to question whether violence is the answer to all of _this_.” He cast a wary look at the assembled courtesans and retainers before continuing. “I feel as if you’ve lost faith in my capabilities...and that is an offense I don’t plan on taking lightly.”

Whatever secrecy that Argyrus was aiming for was obviously lost on Reverb, though if Jazz observed him closely, he’d be more hardpressed to imagine that Reverb simply didn’t care who listened. “Do you consider yourself a mech capable of leading a war, Argyrus?”

_War?_

Argyrus grimaced, “That wasn’t what I meant—.”

“—But the question still stands.” Reverb cut him off with a grin, waggling a finger in the air. “Though the answer is quite clear. You’re a mech that’s lived in luxury your whole life. Your wealth was hereditary. Even when the war broke out, all those millennia ago, your funds gave you access to smuggling yourself off world and you lived on some quaint little colony on the edge of forgotten space before you came back here and wormed your way into the top 1% of the population. No opposition, no red tape baring you from rising up to claim your place. That...skews your perspective. Horribly, if I may add and viewing the world through such lenses is a dangerous thing to do.” He leaned forward, visor flashing menacingly. “You may have charmed my sister into settling down with you but remember that you need us far more than we need you. We have the heir to secure your profits, after all remember? You. Are. Expendable.”

Jazz swallowed roughly as the underlying threat echoed through the now empty dining hall, surprised by how quickly Reverb had been able to go from light-hearted to threatening in a matter of astroseconds. But what truly captivated the saboteur’s attention was how calm and collected every single one of his fellow servants were in the face of such loaded conversations and confrontations. The only one who looked at all perturbed was Aster, though it was probably due more to the fact that he knew he’d be dealing with the green mech’s outbursts long after the dinner was settled than anything else.

But for the most part, everyone observed silently, as if this were a common occurrence and the guests had been talking about anything but war and death.

Jazz knew, then and there, that his mission had suddenly become much more critical.

A sigh escaped Argyrus. “Fine,” he relented, grabbing his fork and picking at what remained of his own meal. “I understand.” He sounded angry but more than anything but his entire posture spoke of someone who knew he was defeated.

Rethelia smiled, amused. She reached over to place a hand on the green mech’s arm, fingers rubbing the metal soothingly. “Good mech,” she said dotingly, sounding more like a creator with her creation than a conjunx. “You learn quickly.”

“A necessary trait,” Reverb said, taking a quick sip of his drink. “If we are to continue with what we have planned.”

A murmur of anticipation coursed through the other bots seated at the table and Jazz winced upon seeing the fiery determination lighting up each of their optics. Demaxx in particular seemed quite eager. He’d seen this kind of fire burning in mech’s optics before, back when he’d been a straggler in the streets who managed to catch glimpses of Decepticon rallies taking place in the dark corners of the world. There was a desire to see change being enacted, a determination to do whatever needed to be done. But beneath it all lingered a hurt that spoke of bots who yearned for change simply as a result of being on the wrong end of the deal life had offered, making the justice they sought as twisted as their perspective.

“We’re with you all the way,” a purple mech murmured reverently from the opposite end of the table. He lifted his cube in a cursory salutation.

The ripple of agreement only made Reverb’s visor brighten and he let out a small breath of a laugh, turning to face Argyrus once more. “See? Loyalty, Argyrus. That’s what separates the riffraff you so despise from the shiny nobles you’re so used to catering towards.”

Someone cleared their throat further down the table and all optics went to the rising silver frame of Demaxx, whose golden optics shone with admiration and purpose. “The Prime and the warlord he calls a conjunx have no slagging business leading our government. They’ve ordered millions of bots to their deaths, Autobots and Decepticons alike. I don’t care what we have to do, but I’m more than willing to make sure they don’t get a chance to screw up everything so many died to make a reality.” Her hands tightened into fists and she smashed her knuckles together. “We’re the ones who carry the scars, while bots like them carry the recognition.”

Jazz closed his optics, fighting down the nausea that was making his tanks roll. He couldn’t afford to purge right now, no matter how much the femme’s words made his vitals coil and his Spark twist in empathy and understanding. He understood where she was coming from but how could he sympathize when her words were defiling the very mechs he was risking his life for?

Argyrus glared at the femme, his grip on his eating utensil tightening until the metal bent under the force. His hand shook for a few seconds before he opened it, dropping the malformed fork onto the table with a resonating clang. With a screech of metal on metal, the green mech threw his chair back and stood up, palms slamming down to lay flat on the table as his optics roved over the assembled bots.

“Where is the logic in igniting another war when you demean those responsible for the previous one? I would understand a revolution, but what you’re suggesting is nothing more than heresy. What’s different other than the fact that this time your own proclivities are being catered towards? A regime for a regime hardly seems like a worthwhile investment.”

Demaxx opened her mouth to retort but Reverb beat her to it and his voice was chillingly calm. “Are you backing out, Argyrus?” Orange visor bright and his chin resting on one hand, the host mech glanced up at the mech with an air of honest curiosity.

Argyrus turned his scarlet gaze on the red mech, a sneer on his face. “No. But I feel that I’m within my right to question where my money is being channeled into. You never told me you were planning a war.”

“Ah.” Reverb nodded, dropping his hand and sitting up a little straighter. “Well, when you put it like that, then I guess you do have a point.” He exchanged a brief glance with his sister and a mutual nod was shared between them.

“A while ago, a mech approached us with an offer. Flowery, painting a pretty picture of the Cybertron he wished to see a reality without the cobwebs of the past obstructing any crucial decision-making. Rethelia and I found it to be troublesome but he offered us quite the sum of credits and we couldn’t really resist the temptation so we indulged the mech.”

Rethelia quickly picked off from where her brother left off, the seamless transition uncanny if Jazz hadn’t seen it in action with Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. “We soon realized that our own aspirations were quite in tune with the mech’s and we left our mercenary ways behind us and focused on gathering the support that such a plan entailed. We’ve barely scratched the surface of what we must accomplish but with time, we’ll find ourselves moving closer to the Cybertron every Cybertronian deserves.”

Argyrus’ optics widened. “You mean to tell me someone else is pulling the strings?”

Reverb laughed. “Good gracious, no. We have the reigns. Our mech is simply sitting on the sidelines, biding his time until it’s his turn to step in.”

“Pfft. And you’re just going to let someone reap the benefits of your hard work?”

“Of course. Because our work will be finite. Absolute. We were given many credits to make this dream a reality and we will not falter.” Reverb smiled, a soft gesture that would have been endearing had his EM field not been spiking with dangerous intent. “We do not fail.”

The representative still didn’t find himself completely reassured. “The Prime and Megatron fought an intergalactic war and won. They have the best medics, the best tactical minds in their social circles. What makes you so sure you’ll even stand a chance?” Jazz hesitated, hating how closely Argyrus had echoed his own musings; these were unknown bots, after all, mercenaries without worthwhile reputations whose dreams were grander than even Megatron’s. All in all, they were grasping at straws and they seemed to be more bark than bite. But it was difficult to ignore the confidence in Reverb’s every moment, the gentle knowing smiles that Rethelia let loose as the conversation proceeded. Hell, even Argyrus’ squeamishness was alarming.

Something dangerous lurked among these bots, something that Jazz couldn’t quite pin down but which had his internal alarms ringing of a danger he had yet to see.

A silence fell over the crowd, prickling with anticipating as all attention went to the orange host mech that was currently sucking on a spicy Energon gummy speared on his fork. His silver glossa gave it a few gentle licks before he swallowed and let out a deep sigh.

“The mechs and femmes I have within these walls are but a sliver of the force backing up this dream, Argy. I have bots everywhere, from the dark little alleys of Tarn to the bright shiny towers of New Vosian. A network of bots willing to set aside their differences who all answer to me and my sister.” He waved his form in the air, grinning. “I’m not much of a fan of naming things but if it makes it easier for you, I guess you could say we’re like...a syndicate.” He popped the gummy into his mouth, gave it a few brisk chews and swallowed it. “The roots of my consortium run deeper than anyone could ever imagine, twisting and digging into the foundation of Iacon itself.”

“A spy?”

Amused chuckles rang through the assembled bots, as if they’d shared an inside joke that everybody but Argyrus was getting.

Reverb shook his head. “No, spies are far too fickle when it comes to delicate operations such as these. I would say something more along the lines of very close friend. Family, I’d dare say.”

Jazz Sparkbeat quickened and his grip on the vase in his hands tightened. But before anyone could say anything further, the door connecting the antechamber to the hall burst open and the tiny blue frame of Radiance rushed inside, weaving through the servants to launch himself into the expectant arms of his carrier.

Argyrus let out a hiss. “You little cretin--!”

“Hey!” Reverb said, readopting that laid-back demeanor Jazz had first seen him sporting before the whole conversation took place. “Watch how you talk to my favorite little mech.”

Rethelia stared down at her creation, ignoring the courtesans that came trailing in through the door after the wayward youngling. “Radiance. We’ve talked about this. No interrupting me when I have company.”

Radiance’s gold optics widened. “But I wanna be here with you, carrier! I can help you!”

Reverb chuckled. “Think you’re ready to play with the big mechs, little guy?”

The youngling nodded. “Yes! I can fight now. And sneak! I learned how to sneak!”

Jazz froze, optics widening behind his visor. A cold wave of regret and fear washed over him when the youngling glanced around and his gaze landed directly on Jazz’s prone form. Recognition lit up his optics and he grinned widely.

Time seemed to slow as the youngling raised his hand, finger pointing in his direction and his lips parted to speak. But Jazz’s luck seemed to be in abundance because Argyrus grabbed Radiance’s hand and redirected his attention to him.

“Bursting in unannounced is unbecoming of you, Radiance.” His voice was quieter, strained but not so harsh as before. “I need you to go back to your room.”

“Why?” Reverb interjected good-naturedly, shrugging. “I say we let him stay here. We’ve got plenty of food to go around.”

Argyrus looked ready to retort but a few cheers and whoops followed his announcement and Radiance beamed at all of them, basking in the attention of the bots he held so near and dear to his Spark. From then on out, the conversation was directed towards more congenial topics suitable for dinner conversations, such as stories of Rethelia and Reverb’s travels and dramatic recollections of Reverb’s new building set he’d had imported from Praxus. The tension in the air eased and for a few moments, one would be hardpressed to say that the bots in front of them were nothing more than an unorthodox family of nobility enjoying a simple dinner with friends.

But it was hard for Jazz to forget what he’d heard. His Spark was spinning in circles in his chestplate, beating against the metal of his sparkchamber so fast and loud it was a wonder nobody had noticed it. His hands were shaking and it was thanks only to his resolution to see things through that he didn’t just keel over like he did during the welcoming committee.

There was no longer any doubt that these were the bots responsible for everything that had happened in the past few quartexes. They were the enemy, the opposition to everything and everyone that Jazz held dear in his life. Reverb had said they had a spy working among them, a close friend that roamed the halls of Iacon, pretending to be a friend when he or she was really a foe. That meant Optimus and Megatron were in trouble.

But who was the spy?

His mind immediately offered a still image of a memory and a sharp pain lanced through Jazz’s chassis when he recognized the bot in the capture. Hand instinctively going to his ventrum, Jazz counted his ventilations and forced himself to relax. No, jumping to conclusions wouldn’t do anyone any good; he couldn’t afford to mess up or bring any more unwanted attention upon himself.

He had to push his emotions aside and treat this as he would any other operation. As the dinner progressed and Jazz dutifully refilled Reverb’s cube when demanded, the saboteur began to hatch up a plan and he mulled it over restlessly until finally, a semi-decent outline was mapped out. By then, dinner had ended and Jazz was dismissed to his quarters in order to allow the next wave of servants to clean up. Picking up his nightly rations from the kitchens, the saboteur was careful to stick to the shadows until he found himself in the relative safety of his chambers.

A shaky sigh escaped him and he was forced to put the cubes on the nightstand beside the berth lest his trembling hands dropped them. That sharp pain lanced through his torso, centered over his ventrum and Jazz glanced down, lips pursed into a thin fine line.

“You can’t be doing that,” he said softly, hand reaching up to pat the offending form lingering beneath his armor and protoform. “Not now.”

Another spasm, this time more insistent and Jazz rolled his optics. He reached for his cubes and gulped them down, waiting for a brief moment and visibly deflating when the pain subsided.

Demanding little thing.

He focused on that as he prepared himself to recharge, knowing that if he kept on thinking about the dinner he’d only deprieve himself of rest he was in desperate need of. Contacting Prowl and Optimus was a priority, for sure, and he’d send a message as soon as he was able. But for now, all he could do was rest. When his frame finally relaxed and his optics shuttered behind his offline visor, he found himself dreaming.

He dreamt of spilled Energon, of burning fires and death. Cybertron burned, the Matrix lay shattered in pieces among the wreckage of what had been Iacon and Megatron’s roars of fury and grief permeated the air.

And in the middle of all the chaos, stood Reverb, poised and grinning a Cheshire grin. But his frame soon morphed and changed until the red plating became navy blue and the orange visor turned a searing vermillion, a faceplate replacing that cold smile.

And for the first time since he’d embarked on his mission, Jazz dreamt of Soundwave.


	16. All These Secrets And Lies

_“Chaos is a_

_friend_

_of mine.”_

                                                                                      

—Bob Dylan

  

Uraya was not a city-state that was beautiful. 

It wasn’t grand and awe-inspiring like Iacon nor did it have that grungy mysteriousness of lesser cities like Kaon and Tarn. But it had a different vibrancy to it than Jazz had originally observed. The heart of the city was hidden partially beneath the planet exterior with slivers of light trickling through the natural trenches that allowed air transports and flight frames easy access to the small docking platforms situated on the levels higher to the surface. Unlike Polyhex, there was constant movement and no matter how many times you came to the marketplaces that dotted the lower level, there was always something new to be seen.

The people were gruff, dry humored but polite in the way that bots with lower caste decorum carried themselves with. Nobody’s armor shone too much and Jazz couldn’t help but wonder what could have possessed Argyrus to even consider representing such a population in the first place.

They were riffraff, the ones who made up the foundations of societies but received so few of the benefits.

“You’re bored, aren’t you?”

Jazz grimaced, turning to stare at the owner of the gruff feminine voice. “I’m not.” 

Gold optics crinkled at the edges in amusement, clear visor glinting with understanding. “You are, Meister.” Demaxx remarked gently, “And you don’t have to hide it from me.”

The saboteur narrowed his optics, saying nothing but giving a minute nod at her words. “Okay.” Truthfully, he was tired. And sore. He’d been walking circles around the marketplace with the silver femme for what seemed like hours, watching her linger at each stall and look at the assortments of goods and treats and very rarely buying anything at all.

But this was the first time in orns that Jazz had been allowed outside of the estate walls and he savored the opportunity, even if he understood that it had been nothing but pure dumb luck. Demaxx had been loitering around the kitchens where Jazz had been helping to clean and restock the supplies and when the head cook had announced that he was low on zirconium and copper, she’d jumped at the chance to go into the heart of the city to get it.

Apparently Reverb and Rethelia kept a tight schedule and almost nobody was allowed to leave the grounds with proper cause and she’d been antsy to ‘stretch her struts’. Jazz had been there and she’d looked at him with pity before telling him to accompany her. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world, the saboteur soon came to realize; of course, Demaxx rarely spoke other than to offer direction or herald a bartering deal and instead of letting Jazz trail behind, she kept a pace that allowed him to be at her side. Her EM field was neutral, occasionally buzzing with excitement when something caught her attention and easily meshing with his.

She was...decent company.

Near perfect if she’d been eager to carry the boxes of the merchandise they’d purchased, of course. But it wasn’t his job to complain.

Jazz had been considerably more careful since Reverb and Rethelia had arrived, taking some time to blend into the background before doing anything that would blow his cover. He’d stopped trying to sneak into Argyrus’ office, never questioned an order given to him and tried his best to be the meek and submissive mech that everyone expected Meister to be. It was humiliating and degrading but Jazz had suffered worse during his time in SpecOps, so it was easy to find something else to focus on while the time passed.

Like the ticking time bomb lingering in his gestation chamber, for example.

His frame had slowly begun to showcase changes, small ones at first but steadily becoming more and more prominent until it got to the point that the saboteur wasn’t able to hide his carrying state anymore. Apart from his rather ridiculous interfacing drive, his balancing gyros needed constant calibration to accommodate the increase in mass and his agility and strength had taken a rather dramatic nosedive. Physically on the verge of being inept, at the very least he still knew of 67 different ways to fell an enemy without the use of his own frame’s endurance and power so he wasn’t completely defenseless.

“—you think? Meister?”

Blinking, the saboteur turned to the femme, smoothly jumping back into reality. Demaxx was standing at yet another stall, a small crystal figurine held delicately in her rather blunt fingers. Her hopeful gaze on him told that she’d asked him his opinion so he forced a smile and nodded. 

“It’s nice." 

The vendor behind the large table holding the merchandise grunted at the rather bland word.

Demaxx grinned, “Nice? Meister, this is Praxian crystal. Look at the red and blue refractions; you can’t just get this kind of quality just anywhere.” She leaned forward, bringing it closer to the saboteur’s face. “And it’s a turbofox. You know what bots say about turbofoxes, don’t you?”

No, he did not. But he nodded regardless.

It was obvious she wasn’t convinced of his answers but she shrugged and took out a couple credit chips. “How much is it?” She asked, holding up the figurine so the vendor could see.

The answer was instantaneous. “250 shanix.”

Demaxx raised an optic ridge. _“250?”_

“Yes.” Arms crossing over his broad chest, the vendor grunted. “High price for high quality.”

For a brief moment, Jazz almost expected the femme to react violently. The leg that had her pistol strapped onto it shifted slightly forward and in his mind’s eye, the femme grabbed it and threatened for a lower price. But with a brief shutter of his optics, the femme ended up smiling and gave the offered price, gesturing for Jazz to follow with a jerk of her chin.

Once they were out of earshot, the femme toyed with the figurine in her hand, throwing it up and catching it in a way that made the saboteur flinch.

“250 shanix, my afterburners.” She said flippantly, shaking her helm and subspacing the thing. “Mech’s crazy.”

“Why did you buy it, then?” Jazz asked, making sure to keep his voice as neutral possible.

Demaxx shrugged, “Nostalgia, mostly. I had one of those when I was a youngling. Not made of such fine material but close enough.” There was an air of finality to her tone and Jazz took it as an indication that she wanted the subject dropped. Since it offered him no information, he let it go and opted to briefly stop to readjust the boxes he had in his arms. Demaxx watched him for a few moments before reaching over to pluck two from the top of the pile, evenly dividing the load.

Finally.

“Ready to head back?” She asked him, as if he had any power to wield when it came to these types of situations. Truthfully, he wanted to stay out a bit more if only to avoid being back at the estate and under the same roof as the mercs and Reverb but his frame was aching; heading back was the only option.

“Okay,” he said, nodding.

Demaxx offered a half-smile in turn. “Great.” And that was the last she ever truly spoke to him; they took a shuttle back to the estate and for the first time since he’d arrived, the guards finally let him in through the front gate. It wasn’t any different than entering from anywhere else and though the mech responsible for humiliating Jazz when he’d arrived gave him a dirty look, the saboteur shrugged in nonchalance.

The usually empty gardens were full of activity, the gardeners absent as the mechs of Rethelia and Reverb’s brigade loitered around the various patches of open areas that the grounds offered. A few were drinking high grade, laughing and joking among themselves but for the most part, all of them were focused on training.

It made a shiver run down Jazz’s spinal strut when he saw a pair of minibot’s take down a large tankformer, moving with a fluidity and skill that the saboteur hadn’t seen since his basic training days back in SpecOps. No movement was wasted, no frills or flamboyance in any of the maneuvers. Just fluidity and skill.

Despite the lack of space and observers, the minibots separated from their target and brandished small electrical batons, smiling at their sparring partner. The tankformer wielded a similar weapon, built to neutralize rather than harm but it’s sheer size was intimidating.

They went at it again and Jazz found himself slowing his gait to watch as once more the two smaller bots proved victorious, zooming around and forcing the larger mech to lose his balance before launching calculated hits that had the larger bot on his hands and knees. It dawned on the saboteur that had they actually been aiming to kill, they would’ve done so efficiently since they’d aimed for vital spots that only the better trained warriors were familiar with.

These bots, Jazz mused, weren’t mediocre fighters. They weren’t even good fighters.

They were _skilled_. Dangerous, maybe even on par with both of the Autobot and Decepticon’s best during the peak of the war. 

Where had they learned all of this, though? Jazz hadn’t seen every single one of the bots under the roof of the estate but from Demaxx’s presence, he surmised that there was a mixture of former soldiers and neutrals within the ranks. Neither of the factions had dedicated time to honing their soldiers’ skills and had they showcased such aptitude for combat, they easily would’ve risen among the ranks. But they hadn’t so their training was received post-war.

Thus, the question remained, unanswered and lingering in the saboteur’s processor like a dark coalescing storm cloud.

“Demaxx!” Jazz whipped his helm around to see a femme jogging up to them, all lithe and sharp angles and sporting a bright burgundy color scheme that was more patchwork than anything. Her fans were whirring at high speed, optics bright and focused, and she carried tiny scratches on her face that oozed fresh Energon.

The silver femme beside Jazz was undeterred by her injuries and grinned in response. “Hey, Rencium.”

Rencium scoffed. “Hey yourself. I didn’t see you in training today so I thought you must’ve backed out cause you weren’t feeling good or something.” Her green optics roved over the boxes in her arms and she frowned. “Never assumed you were out doing the couriers’ work.”

The disdain in her voice would’ve been offensive for any other bot but Jazz found the irony in her words more amusing than anything. Hadn’t her boss been preaching about an equal Cybertron orns ago?

Demaxx was untroubled by the obvious jab. Instead, she reached out to dab at one of the scratches underneath the green optic of her companion and shook her head. “I went out for a walk,” she explained. “Damn, who the slag did this to you? It’s going to scar.”

Rencium’s gaze roved over Jazz, taking him in and certainly not liking what she was seeing. As if he wasn’t even there, she leaned towards Demaxx and asked, “Isn’t that the mech that got sparked up by Argyrus?”

Jazz smiled, coldly polite. “Yes. Would you like to feel?” He moved the boxes to expose his ventrum, one hip sticking out in the femme’s direction. “My bitlet doesn’t move very much but maybe it’ll oblige if you ask politely.”

Rencium looked scandalized. Demaxx muffled a snort with the palm of her hand, playing it off as a cough when her companion turned to look at her with wide optics.

“Well,” the burgundy femme said haughtily, wiping off imaginary dust from one of her shoulder pauldrons. “I don’t have time to chit chat. Some of us have actual work to do." 

“What like getting your aft kicked again?”

“Hey, it’s not like I’m not trying.” Rencium retorted, aiming a shove in Demaxx’s direction. “But y’know Makeshift. He’s absolutely ruthless.”

It took a moment for the name to register in Jazz’s mind and by the time it finally dawned on him, Rencium was bidding Demaxx farewell and the silver femme was urging Jazz to follow her back inside the manor. Robotically, Jazz complied but his optics were wide behind his visor as he surveyed the assembled bots and it wasn’t until he reached the steps leading inside the building that he saw it. 

Armor ripping with strength, purple paint glinting in the sun and scarlet optics narrowed over a grin as he held down a flailing mech with his heel, stood Makeshift. Bots around him awed in admiration, a few laughing at his pinned victim before jumping up and down for a chance to showcase their skill once the humiliated mech was let back up. He looked at home, surrounded by these bots, and had Jazz never seen him tear fresh Decepticon recruits into pieces just because he could, he would’ve assumed that the shifter had spent eons building camaraderie with them all.

Jazz felt his Spark stop and his mouth went dry.

This was bad. Lately, that seemed to be the word used to describe every single revelation he’d had since arriving and he was frankly getting tired of repeating the phrase to himself over and over inside his head. He hadn’t had time to go back to the little market that Aster had taken him to, where the little confectionery store that he’d been sending his messages through was located. But now he realized that he’d have to make time.

The information he’d gathered was sensitive enough as it was.

Optimus and Prowl needed to know what was going on. Of who was gearing up to go against them. Makeshift and by default, Flareup, were traitors and they’d no doubt been aiming to actually get rid of Optimus in the first place; why was unknown but at the very least Jazz took solace in the fact that they were unaware he was still alive.

As he continued on his way, Jazz took a few brief moments to ponder over what their course of action would be. If he got the message to them in time, maybe they’d launch a full out assault force and capture the bots before they’d had the opportunity to polish and enact their plan. His memories could serve as evidence; all that red tape about unlawfully obtaining the information could be smoothed over once they got everything into the courts. Prowl was good at that stuff, Jazz could trust him to make do with what he had.

Right?

But what would the general populace think? If he blew his cover and his death was revealed to be nothing more than a sophisticated act of deception, would they take it as a sign of heroism or duplicity? Optimus was already struggling to keep their reconstructing government on its feet as it was, so if it came to be known that he was behind this plan, all support for him would crumble. There’d be chaos in the Assembly, on the streets...somehow, that was even worse than keeping everything to himself and saying nothing at all.

He let out an inaudible groan of frustration. Everything was a huge fragging mess. A jumbled, complicated chaotic mess. Jazz wasn’t used to these kind of missions; during the war, everything had been clearer, more black and white with no grey middle ground. It’d been a killed or be killed world, with a clear-cut view of ‘them’ and ‘us’.

But during peace perspectives were skewed and morality and ethics took on a very different meaning. The ends didn’t always justify the means, even if good intentions backed them up.

It was frustrating to understand that. But what made it even worse was knowing that his decisions could no longer be made with only his good-will in mind; the bitlet’s future had to be taken into question now as well. His decision to go through with the carrying of his creation now affected every little thing that he did; if he died, two Sparks would be extinguished. So naturally, heroic self-sacrifices were now off the table.

He shook his helm as a wave of emotions threatened to wash over him, dispelling his sentimental thoughts and the complicated scenarios running through his mind. He was on the verge of overwhelming himself and he needed to keep a clear and level processor. 

One step at a time. First thing on the list was actually getting the message out; even if the information was questionable, at the very least it was in hands capable of doing more than his. If something managed to knock him out of the picture, then Optimus and Prowl at the very least knew who to look for. Names and locations and affiliations.

After delivering the supplies, Jazz checked up on his schedule and he let out a sigh of relief upon noticing that it’d been cleared for the rest of the orn. The aches and pains in his frame seemed to intensify at the revelation, reminding him that he was tired and in desperate of some Energon and recharge. Recharge first though, because his energy levels were tolerably around the 50% mark. Exiting the kitchens, he weaved his way through the halls, avoiding the ones with more activity until he came upon the stairs leading up to the retainers’ chambers. It was odd, sleeping in a room by himself, but he found the privacy quite rejuvenating; he still wasn’t sure why Rethelia was going out of her way to help out the mech her conjunx had been unfaithful with but he knew better than to openly question it.

Halfway up the stairs, he heard a rather boisterous laugh and his optics narrowed as he halted and glanced over the railing to see a familiar shade of scarlet lingering on the lower level. The fear that coiled in Jazz’s belly no longer related to the similarities Reverb shared with Soundwave but rather Reverb inspired something deeply unsettling within the saboteur. For all his charisma and charm, something darker lingered beneath that grinning façade and it seemed he was the only one capable of recognizing it.

Reverb was pacing back and forth, obviously talking to someone else via a comm and his arms were crossed over his chest, one hand moving to and fro as he spoke. For a moment, Jazz was tempted to wait and listen in but he quickly realized the area was too open and the last thing he was aiming to do was attract unwanted attention. An unfortunate circumstance but unavoidable. 

Grimacing, he prepared to continue his journey but he found himself freezing when he glanced up the stairway.

Radiance was balancing on the railing on the level surface, arms stretched out at his sides as he sought to keep himself upright. Another laugh from Reverb made him pause and he hunched down to grab the ebony railing, gold optics curious as they stared down at the pacing mech.

It wasn’t difficult for Jazz to catch onto what suddenly crossed into the youngling’s mind and he couldn’t resist uttering every curse known to Cybertronians at the tiny blue bot in his processor. 

Discreetly, he waved a hand, careful not to be too obvious as he attempted to divert the youngling’s attention away from his task. Radiance didn’t notice him and he slowly turned his body towards the edge, displaying an agility and stealth that Jazz normally would have applauded in any other circumstance. But he wasn’t about to be caught dead in the middle of having Argyrus and Rethelia’s wayward youngling jumping off to his doom and attempting to land on the one bot Jazz had been trying to avoid.

Reverb carried on with his conversation below, unaware of the scheming youngling and desperate servant on the stairs above him.

“Radiance!” Jazz whispered, voice so low he was sure the youngling wouldn’t be able to hear. To his surprise, Radiance paused and he blinked several times before focusing on the rather despairing form of his favorite servant. With a Cheshire grin that was almost a carbon copy of Argyrus’, Radiance offered a rather enthusiastic silent wave. 

Jazz shook his head, crossing his arms in front of him. No, he was all but saying out loud. Bad idea!

Radiance frowned, turning his helm to one side in question.

The saboteur clenched his jaw and shook his helm again. He dragged his index finger across his throat several times, hoping his optics showcased how much he thought this was a stupid course of action.

Unfortunately, that turned out to be a bad idea. See, on Earth, that very same gesture was used to indicate death, usually of something else rather than a person’s life. If someone had their music on too loud, you’d offer them the sign and they’d know to shut it off.

On Cybertron, however, that gesture was ambiguous at best and up for interpretation for whoever received it. Normal mechs would’ve been confused. A few maybe would’ve guessed what it actually meant.

But Radiance was no normal mech. And when his optics brightened and he gave a vigorous nod and thumbs up, Jazz knew he hadn’t understood.

It all happened so fast. One moment, Radiance was balancing on the railing and then the next he was flying through the air, descent almost completely silent until the sound of crashing metal and the indignant squawk of both mechs below shattered the brief moment serenity.

Jazz’s optics were wide as he all but flung his upper body over the balustrade, knuckles white as he gripped it and waited for his visor to reboot and present him with the broken frame of the youngling. To his surprise, Radiance was fine, carefully seated on Reverb’s chest and laughing like he hadn’t just done the stupidest thing in the world. The red mech beneath him was rubbing his helm with both hands, groans of pain (a bit exaggerated, if Jazz was honest) escaping him.

“What was that?” Reverb asked groggily.

Radiance giggled. “I got you!” He exclaimed, arms spreading out wide and flapping like a grounded Seeker’s wings. “I got you, Reverb! And you didn’t even know it was me!”

Jazz sincerely doubted that but he said nothing, observing quietly as Reverb rose into a sitting position and gently set the preening onto the floor beside him. The red host mech’s glass was cracked but he sported no damage from what the saboteur could see. Despite the injury, he seemed almost amused with the blue youngling’s antics.

Definitely not the menacing figure Jazz had expected him to turn into.

“That’s quite the feat,” Reverb said thoughtfully, smiling now that the confusion had passed. He pulled a knee up to his chest and rest an arm over it, helm tilting to one side. “Where’d you learn something like that?”

Jazz froze.

Radiance beamed.

“From him.” The blue youngling innocently said, pointing up.

Time seemed to slow down as Reverb followed Radiance’s line of sight, orange visor bright and lips slowly pulling into a grin when he locked his gaze with Jazz’s. For a brief moment, neither said anything and Jazz felt as if the world were turning on its axis.

Reverb’s helm gave a minute little shake as he rose to his feet, dusting himself off before helping Radiance onto his feet.

Jazz was torn between staying put and making a break for his room. But Reverb didn’t give him a chance to decide; crooking one finger up at him, the red mech gestured for him to come down.

“Meister, was it?” His deep voice was dripping with faux warmth, rich and suave in a way that Argyrus aimed to mimic but could never perfect. “I don’t believe we’ve made a proper acquaintance. I think it’s time we rectified that, don’t you think?”

With a heavy Spark, Jazz slowly nodded.

There was no escape now.

Saying nothing, he forced his hands to let go of the railing and slowly made his way down the stairs.

 

~~~

 

Prowl forced his twitching optic to shutter twice before rebooting itself, blue gaze once again refocusing on the macabre scene in front of him. 

It’d been almost a decaorn since he’d called in First Aid and Vortex into the tiny interrogation room housing both of the assassination suspects and it wasn’t until now that he was starting to feel regret for his decision. It wasn’t that he felt remorse for the mechs inside the cell; they’d been responsible for the near-death experience of best friend and former commanding officer. Their crimes were unforgivable and their suffering was minute in the face of the grand scheme of things. 

Through the one-sided plexiglass, the black and white mech watched as Vortex proceeded to split open another one of the femme’s fingertips, exposing the delicate multicolored wires that rested underneath. With a dexterity that rivaled his own blunt tips, the interrogator pulled out several frayed edges and he twisted and pulled until the gagged femme was writhing on the slab, optics wide and muffled shrieks of pain echoing on the alloy walls. She was a grotesque collage of cuts, burns and amputations, the Energon coagulant in her system keeping her from bleeding out of injuries that would have been severe had they been caused by anyone other than the black rotor looming over her.

The room reeked of the femme’s fear, of her agony but the former Decepticon was unperturbed by it, showcasing neither pleasure nor disgust as he proceeded to enact procedures that’d been outlawed long before the war had even ended. 

It was unnerving, even for someone who had never considered himself to be squeamish.

First Aid shifted beside Prowl and the former Enforcer took the opportunity to turn his attention to something other than the torture being carried out in front of him. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, aiming for an open-ended conversation starter. He and the former medical assistant had never been friends in the past, only seeing each other during the sparse times Prowl had found himself in need of medical aid after missions during the war.

The red and white mech nodded, firm and resolute. “Yes.”

Prowl frowned slightly at the remark, surprised by the resolution in the normally unsure mech’s voice.

First Aid caught onto his confusion easily and a mirthless chuckle escaped him. “Vortex...can sense when I’m not relaxed,” he explained. “It’s taken a while but I’ve learned not to be afraid or disturbed by this side of him." 

“Why, if you don’t me asking?”

“Well,” First Aid shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest but gaze never leaving the scene. “I guess you could say it’s kind of a necessity between unofficial conjunx.”

Prowl’s doorwing’s lifted in surprise. “Oh. Congratulations.”

EM field pulsing with gratitude against his, First Aid nodded. “Thanks. Though, do try to keep the information to yourself. Vortex doesn’t want anyone to know.”

Another scream from the femme had Prowl wincing but he endeavored to keep the conversation alive. “Every bot is entitled to their own privacy. The Twins and I, for example, had our bonding in private.” A warmth spread through his chestplate at the memory and he longed to be anywhere else but here, preferably in the comfort of his berth with his mates surrounding him. Shaking his helm to dispel the distracting albeit pleasant memories, he asked, “How exactly did you and Vortex become involved, exactly?”

For a moment, Prowl wondered if he’d crossed a boundary he wasn’t welcome to and he quickly opened his mouth to take the question back but First Aid proved to be quite open about his relationship.

“Remember that trauma recovery program Rung had instated after the armistice was drafted? The one that forced every single soldier to go through basic psychiatric sessions to see if they were capable of adjusting to civilian life? Well, Vortex happened to be one of my patients.” There was an amused note to his tone but the humor of such a statement was lost on the tactician. “He was...a mess, to be honest. He’d been an involuntary member of Shockwave’s gestalt program and though it was physically successful, no one had thought to gauge how much emotional damage such an intense transformation caused on an already unstable mech. Vortex had been a killer before the war, sentenced to eons of Spark prison before the facility he was in was raided and he was taken out and used. Back then, he knew what he’d done but once he became a part of Bruticus, it all just went downhill.”

First Aid paused. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure if I could help him. But then, I realized that he needed an outlet, something to channel the destructive tendencies the war had instilled and polished within him. And with time, I found it.”

Prowl was almost afraid to ask. “What was it?”

The smile in the red and white mech’s voice was blatantly obvious. “Interfacing.”

First Aid chuckled softly when he noticed Prowl raise an incredulous optic ridge, but there was no shame in his EM field. “Yes, interfacing. You see, Vortex thrives on dominance. On submission and control of those beneath him. Interfacing offers the opportunity to reenact those scenes and subsequently an opportunity to release built up charge. Few mechs were willing to indulge his proclivities. Even less had the medical training to keep it from turning deadly...much less find a way to make it mutually pleasurable.” A shoulder rose and fell in a haphazard shrug. “That’s where I came in.”

Vortex’s engine gave a menacing growl as he held a solder of the exposed wires peeking out from the cuts and broken seams of the femme’s fingers, red visor glinting dangerously as he neared the glowing blue tip to the threadbare nerves.

“Names and locations,” his smooth low octave droned, managing to sound ominous despite its neutral tone. “And you might just manage to keep the use of your hands.”

The femme froze, optics wide. Several muffled words sounded so the rotor reached up to hook a finger under the gag to pull it off; just enough so her cracked and crusty lips were free and visible.

“Try again,” Vortex said. Prowl and First Aid leaned in a little, foreheads almost pressing to the glass as they waited for the femme’s response.

Scarlet optics shuttered once, twice before focusing on the mech above her.

“I...I’ll talk.” She said, wincing as each word jostled her damaged vocalizer. “J-j-just please. No more...”

Vortex’s glance at the glass was subtle, almost unnoticeable but First Aid took heed of it immediately. His armor plating flared for a brief moment before it settled, an audible exvent escaping him.

“Vortex wants to know if you want him to continue.”

Prowl narrowed his optics, blue optics roving over the damaged frame of the prisoner. “Can she even talk?”

Another minute exchange between the two bonded and First Aid was suddenly nodding. “Her vocalizer’s damaged but not unsalvageable. Give me some time and I can fix it up enough for her to have about 97% of her normal speech capabilities.”

The Praxian pondered over the situation, optics narrowing as he delved into his thoughts. He wasn’t too keen on hearing the femme’s voice for any longer, his thoughts finding themselves momentarily haunted by the screeches she’d been emitting ever since Prowl had decided on this course of action. He’d told none of his officers what he was going to be doing down here but once the large black frame of Vortex had sauntered through the station, the commissioner had seen a look of recognition and triumph in Silverwing’s optics. Riot had looked concerned but he’d said nothing, turning his back to Prowl and his guests and continuing with the stack of datapads situated on his desk. 

Nobody’d said anything but they were smart bots and no doubt, they’d figured out what was happening down here. It was no coincidence nobody had approached him asking for authorization to reopen a case or to sign off on a report; one thing about being a former war veteran among a group of civil officers was that they respected when the extreme had to be taken into consideration.

Neither Optimus nor Megatron were aware of what was occurring and Prowl hoped it remained that way.

“We don’t have time for her to talk,” Prowl said, his own unease of the situation coupled with the secrecy and the lack of communication from Jazz slowly getting to him. “We need answers and we need them now.” The femme had been given more than one opportunity to talk and she’d always found ways to bounce around the truth; his tac net warned him that this was nothing more than a ploy to get a reprieve from the agony.

Torture almost always managed to break even the cockiest of bots.

First Aid’s blue visor flashed in warning. “What are you suggesting, exactly?”

The words tasted acrid on Prowl’s glossa, bitter and sour. "A processor read. Fully invasive.” Noticing the disbelief etched into every line of First Aid’s posture, he added. “She’s weak; the torture’s diverted most of her system’s energy to keeping her alive. Without her full strength, she won’t have the power to resist.”

Vortex’s engine revved, a warning that he needed an answer and quickly. First Aid’s gaze, however, never left Prowl’s. 

“What exactly is going on here?” He asked, suspicious. “All of this seems like way too much effort for two individual assassins. You’ve caught them already.”

Prowl almost winced at how close First Aid was to the truth and a deep empathetic part of him knew he was indebted to revealing the truth to both mechs, given how Vortex struggled with this part of himself already despite First Aid’s emotional support. But he couldn’t. Because the whole situation was bound to come to the surface sooner or later and when that time came, the last thing Prowl wanted to do was drag an innocent acquaintance down with him.

“What about her companion?” First Aid probed, persistent. He pointed to the other interrogation room housing the mech seated in the same hunched position that he’d been in since he came in. “You haven’t touched him.”

Prowl sighed. “He isn’t alive.”

First Aid scoffed. “What?”

“He isn’t technically alive.” Prowl repeated, voice forceful. “He’s missing almost ¾ of his Spark. He has no vocalizer and his processor’s the equivalent of a drone. He can transform, mimic basic facial expressions but there’s no activity in his processor.” And he knew that only because Ratchet had been called in to do a basic system check but a detail best left undisclosed.

The red and white mech was speechless. But he eventually found his voice and shook his head. “What the Hell is going on here?”

Vortex emerged from the interrogation room, slamming the door forcefully shut behind him and bringing the smell of fresh Energon and vital fluids with him. If First Aid hadn’t reached out to grasp his arm, Prowl would have had the decency to look afraid.

“What’s going on?” Vortex hissed, annoyed that First Aid’s focus had been taken off of him.

Prowl grimaced. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” he explained. “I need you both to trust me: that femme in there cannot be trusted to speak. We need that processor scan.”

The rotor’s visor flashed. “And who do you expect to do that? I’m not exactly qualified for mnuemosurgery—”

“—There’s a cleaner way,” Prowl said, cutting the rotor off. He hated the phrase and just thinking about the practice made him uneasy. Too many unpleasant memories tied to the word. “Much more efficient.”

It was alarmingly quick they way Vortex caught onto Prowl’s train of thought. “Telepathy.” He said, sounding almost amused. “You wanna dive deep into her mind.”

“Yes,” Prowl said, carefully judging each word. “I do.”

Both bots shared a brief look between them before Vortex was shrugging his shoulders. “Lemme guess, you’re thinking of someone blue, boring and has an army of little minions parading around him like his personal fanclub?”

The black and white mech hummed. “Not the description I would use but yes.” He nodded. “We need Soundwave.”

He was the only bot capable of procuring the scan and thankfully, fully aware of just how much was at stake.

Vortex let out a small huff, shaking his helm. “Yeah, well, you might find yourself having a little bit of trouble with that.”

“Why?” Prowl frowned.

“Swindle swung by our place a couple orns ago, drunk and high off of a new supply of inhalants he’d smuggled off world. He told us a few things, none of them good, of course, but he did happen to mention Soundwave in the middle of a rather dramatic spiel.” Vortex’s helm tilted to one side, EM field bemused. “He said the mech had come up to him asking for a way to sell off his apartment. Said something about relocating.”

The unease in Prowl’s belly morphed into a spasm of vital twisting anxiety. “Relocation? Did he say where?”

“No,” First Aid chimed in, shaking his helm. “I stopped by his place to drop off some medical bills he still owed me from a procedure I did on Laserbeak and Buzzsaw and his apartment was empty. I called in where he had listed as his place of work and they said he hasn’t showed up for a while so they let him go. He’s gone.”

Prowl’s frown deepened and he found himself truly confused. That didn’t sound like Soundwave at all; why had he relocated without informing anyone? At the very least he would’ve told Megatron or Optimus of his intentions, if for nothing more than the courtesy of sharing sensitive knowledge of an ongoing investigation. So far neither of the leaders had let him know of any changes. Even if Soundwave wasn’t aware of the undercover operation, he still knew someone was out there plotting against the government.

“How can he be gone?” Prowl murmured rhetorically. He felt the familiar simpering trickles of rage creeping up on him, forcing his doorwings to hike up to the furthest point up on his back. His hands clenched into fists and he let out a curse, shaking his helm and beginning to pace across the enclosed space. His steps echoed on the floor and their rhythmic tune was the only thing keeping him grounded and away from the precipice of a processor glitch.

Things were turning out to be far more complicated than anyone had anticipated. 

“Dammit,” Prowl hissed, coming to a stop and pinching the bridge of his noseplate between his thumb and forefinger. He could feel a processor ache coming on and he desperately wanted to be anywhere but here. But the lives of bots he cared about were at stake so he didn’t have the luxury of wallowing.

With a glance at the two bots standing beside him, he opened up a comm line, waiting for a few long kliks before he received a message of confirmation.

“Chromedome?” He asked, fighting the grimace off his face. “Yeah, it’s Prowl. Listen. I have a situation I need your help with...”


	17. Where You And I Collide

_“and I will kill myself_

_with the dagger of_

_your betrayal_

_Hoping one day you’d_

_choke to death_

_on the guilt...”_

 

—Anamika Raj

Jazz was terrified.

Scared was too meek a word and petrified was too restrictive. He could move and talk and walk, but his insides were twisting into knots, curling tighter and tighter until he feared that all the air in his vents would stop and his frame would heat up and spontaneously combust. The hand over his ventrum was instinct, he kept telling himself, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was more along the lines of a protective reaction.

That wasn’t a feeling he was well acquainted with and never in his life did he ever suspect he’d feel so helpless and useless, especially while nothing was impeding his physical movement. He walked beside Reverb in silence, fully capable of stopping and driving the small blade he had hidden in his subspace into that brilliant red frame. He’d stick it into the thin hose connected the host mech’s docking chamber to his spinal strut, severing the physical psychic connection he had with his little heathens. The pain and disorientation would be intense, difficult to ignore, and when he was on his hands and knees, the saboteur would finish the job.

The knife would lodge itself into his visor, skewering the processor and then without so much as a pause, the blade would drive itself into Reverb’s sparkchamber and that would be that.

A clean kill.

End of the world, indefinitely put on hold.

But Jazz’s imaginings, no matter how vivid, where nothing more than that in the long run. Just desperate visual manifestations of wishful thinking.

Reverb was unusually quiet, an oddity that Jazz couldn’t help but notice after having observed the mech do nothing but talk since he’d arrived. His smooth lips were pulled into an easy smile and his visor shone brightly as he led the saboteur through the twisting hallways of the manor. As they neared the guest wing, Jazz feared that Reverb was looking for an intimate setting to converse but a quick turn down a different hall had them both emerging on a small veranda outside of the dining room. It led to a tiny little garden, the one where tiny crystals and metals were harvested for culinary dishes, and it was absent of any other mechs.

The sounds of training mecha were faint and faraway, barely audible.

The fresh air hit Jazz like a wave and his step faltered slightly, forcing him to grab onto the edge of the doorway to keep himself upright. Reverb paused just on the other side of the threshold and that gentle smile on his face would’ve fooled the saboteur if he hadn’t been made privy to the host mech’s emotional outbursts.

A single black hand extended itself between them, palm up and offering assistance. “Forgive me,” Reverb murmured softly. “I almost forgot my manners there for a moment.”

Jazz stared at the hand with narrowed optics but he complied nonetheless; this was a mech he wasn’t sure of, and it was better to follow his direction before taking control of the situation. The saboteur tried not to focus on how warm his palm was or how easily his long fingers wrapped around his. It brought up too many painful memories of another mech he was trying hard to forget.

Reverb didn’t let his hand go once Jazz was safely on the other side and for a few brief moments, their hands remained clasped between them and Reverb pulled him towards two little chairs that were sitting near the edge of the small porch. Methodically, Jazz obediently followed and allowed Reverb to all but guide him into sitting down in his seat. Knees almost brushing, Reverb finally let Jazz’s hand go and the saboteur pulled it against his chest in the form of a clenched fist.

The action didn’t go unnoticed by the red host mech. “You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?”

The question made Jazz freeze, but only for a second. “Not really. More like, wary.”

Reverb’s gentle smile morphed into an amused grin. “Wise mech. I can tell you’re going to make a great carrier.”

Jazz’s reaction was instantaneous. His body shifted away from the other bot, knees pulling to the opposite side of the chair and torso pivoting to face any direction but the one currently being occupied by the red mech. His blue visor dimmed, allowing the seamless transition between his visor and his optics, the latter which he preferred when it came to instantaneous decision making.

It was only his eons of SpecOps training that kept his hands from brandishing the only weapon on his being.

Reverb was unperturbed by his reaction; in fact, his EM field flickered with understanding from where it meshed along the edge of Jazz’s. He raised his hands in surrender, leaning back to rest on the backrest of the chair. It did little to soothe Jazz’s anxiety but at the very least he found himself relaxing enough to at least look the mech in the optics, the desire to run and kill fading away to a dull throb in the back of his helm.

“Apologies.”

Jazz hated the sincerity in the other mech’s tone, the faux warmth that tentatively wrapped around the saboteur’s Spark in a temporary cocoon of safety and cordiality. He blamed his temporary acceptance of it on his carrier protocols but a deeper part of him imagined that it had to do with the desperation for friendly contact. He’d been deprived of it ever since stepping foot on the estate. Jespa was perhaps the closest thing he had to a friend here but not even she understood the complexity and danger of Jazz’s predicament.

“You’re forgiven,” he said eventually, lifting his shoulders up and down in a haphazard shrug. His hands clasped tightly in his lap, thumbs twiddling nervously. His visor was turned towards the horizon but his optics never left the red host mech.

That gentle smile returned. “Good,” Reverb replied. “I’m glad. I’d hate for our first conversation to be hindered by unnecessary confrontations. After all, we’re all friends here.”

Jazz would have laughed if he could, the irony of the words not lost on him. But he stayed still and silent, letting the other mech lead the conversation. Reverb was silent for a few moments, staring out at the tiny refractive crystals lingering in pots and smiling inquisitively at them. Every movement of his was relaxed, nonchalant, but Jazz wasn’t fooled for a second. He’d learned not to underestimate his opponents and no matter what Reverb said, he was still the saboteur’s enemy.

He was the leader of a criminal syndicate aiming to topple the world peace he’d fought to instill. His goals ended with his friends and family dead. Those were things Jazz would never forget.

No matter how much the red host mech smiled and acted like the perfect gentlemech. That smile of his was too pleasant for someone of his stature, anyways.

“How long have you been here?” The question was abrupt and caught Jazz slightly off guard. He wanted to lie and say that he’d been at the estate a long time but he knew any other of the servants would be more than willing to rat him out if he lied. So, he aimed for truthfulness, hoping the red mech wasn’t looking for anything in particular.

“Four decaorns.” Really, it was like three and a half but he wasn’t about to worry about his math right now.

“Do you like it here?”

“Yes, sir.”

Reverb’s lips twitched and he nodded. “I see...”

Jazz didn’t know what to make of his tone or his words. He sounded calm, far too calm, and Jazz was slowly starting to feel the panic creeping up along his spine.

Hand reaching up to cup his chin, Reverb’s index finger began to tap against lower lip which he stuck out in a mild pout. “Your accent,” he said against the pad of his index finger. “I don’t really recognize it as Urayan. Are you, by any chance, from Polyhex?”

 _Too close_ , Jazz’s processor chanted. Reverb was asking questions that were far too close to the truth that he was seeking to hide. But lying now would do him no good at all; after all, why would Reverb waste his time with such mundane questions?

This...was an interrogation. And it had absolutely nothing to do with what Radiance had done just a few kliks ago. Of that much, Jazz was certain. The youngling’s stupid actions had been an excuse to get him talking.

Keeping his gaze on anything but the red mech, Jazz nodded. “My creators were. I was sparked in Polyhex, raised in Altihex and then I eventually found myself heading back to my home city. I never left.” Jazz’s records weren’t public since he’d been sparked illegally so it was safe to be truthful in that regard.

“I heard Polyhex was one of the first cities to be bombed during the first phase of the war,” Reverb said thoughtfully. Crossing one leg over the other, he rested his elbows on the armrests of the chair and pressed the tips of his fingers together. “Whatever did you do to survive?”

“I...lived on the streets.” Jazz said mechanically, reciting from memory a story he'd told time and time again. “I was outside of the city center when the first of the bombs fell so I was able to escape. I headed into the city next to it and just did what I do best.”

Silence. Then Reverb chuckled dryly. “And what was that, exactly...?”

Jazz knew a trap when he heard one. “Stealing,” Jazz said, turning his helm to face the red mech fully. “I stole to survive.” It was a dangerous admission, certainly not one an employer would want to hear from one of their employees. But Jazz knew that admission would be capable of doing one of two things.

First off, it’d explain why he was even capable of ‘sneaking’ in the first place. Jazz was sure more than one of Reverb’s men had been thieves in their lives so surely, he understood just how prevalent such a vocation had been during the planet’s darkest hour. Everyone underneath this estate’s roof held secrets and the ones Jazz was giving Reverb now, were some of the few he could live without.

“It’s unwise to be teaching younglings how to sneak around,” Reverb replied, shaking his head. His orange visor flashed with an unreadable expression. “Especially during such precarious times when everyone’s on edge.”

“I apologize,” Jazz said when the other mech went silent, doing his best to ignore the subtle innuendo in his tone. “It won’t happen again.”

“No,” Reverb said sadly. “It won’t.”

Before the saboteur could react, Reverb’s hand was on his arm, the grip forceful and unyielding. Jazz could easily pull back from it but he knew that doing so would be the wrong move in this scenario; he was just a simple bot, so pulling out a rather complicated take down maneuver was out of the question. But he couldn’t remain complete passive either.

He had a part to play.

“S-s-sir?” he stuttered.

“Why are you lying about your creation’s sparking?”

Jazz frowned, truly confused now. “What?”

“Your creation,” Reverb said smoothly, leaning in close until their noseplates were almost touching. “You’re lying about who the sire is.”

_Oh Primus, did he know?_

Jazz searched for anything that would indicate that he’d been compromised, Spark pounding relentlessly in his chest as the orange visor revealed nothing even when the saboteur could feel the cold and analytical gaze of the red host scourging over every inch of his frame. Instincts told him to run, to kick and scream and make a dash for the nearest exit. He—his creation—was in danger.

But luckily, the saboteur’s logic center was still firmly in control. It knew that if he tried to make a run for it, Reverb would easily catch him. The red host mech was stronger, faster and Jazz was in no condition to be pulling any complicated tactics without risking the tiny form in his gestation chamber. Maybe if it’d still been just a sliver of light circulating his Spark, he could’ve pulled it off but the thing was that he currently couldn’t.

He was trapped.

And there was only one way out of it.

Swallowing roughly, Jazz lowered his gaze and hunched his shoulders in apology. He expanded his EM field, throwing in every single sliver of fear and anxiety and pleading that he could, hoping the red mech would pick up on it.

“I’m so sorry!” Jazz whimpered, hating how pathetic sounded. But he had no other course of action to follow through with. Reverb’s grip faltered just enough that he could pull his arm free and he buried his faceplates in his hands. “I’m so so sorry..."

“What for?” Reverb pressed.

Jazz shook his head. “I lied. Argyrus did...rape me. But he didn’t Spark me."

The look of triumph crossing Reverb’s face made a chill run down Jazz’s spine but the thought hadn’t even solidified before the red host mech was clapping his hands and grinning. “I knew it! I told Rethelia, from the first moment I laid optics on you, that you were too far along for the story to make any sense. From what I can tell, the little thing’s in the gestation stage, am I right?”

Jazz frowned at the pet name but never faltered in his act. “Yes,” he said softly, lifting his face and wiping at the streaks of coolant that painted his cheeks. “Argyrus isn’t the sire.”

A huff and then Reverb readopted his former contemplative positon. “Then who is it?” He asked, tilting his helm to one side in question. “Do forgive my prying, but a bot as adorable as you surely has someone just waiting to celebrate the little things emergence, no?”

“No.” Oh, but there was. There was always someone else; it took two to bring a newspark into existence, after all. But the thing was that the bot responsible for Jazz’s...condition, had absolutely no idea of his part in everything.

Jazz paused, frowning. Soundwave...had no idea. He’d always thought about that in passing, usually shrugging it off and denouncing the mech to prove that he’d never see him again if he had anything to do with it. But now that he thought about it...he couldn’t help but feel uneasy.

Once all of this was over, Jazz knew he’d have to denounce his state as a dead mech. Because there was no way his bitlet would survive if he went on the run and lived his life under a false name; because Jazz, for all his willingness to give the newspark an opportunity to live, couldn’t see himself raising a creation without the circle of friends that’d kept him off the edge for so many eons. Because if Soundwave ever learned of the bitlet’s existence—

Jazz cut off that train of thought immediately, focusing on the red mech beside him. Reverb smiled, almost as if he were in tune to Jazz’s train of thought.

“You’re running away,” Reverb observed. “I can sense the fear in your EM field when I mentioned your creation’s sire.”

The saboteur made no effort to control himself; it’d only end up looking suspicious. His hands tightened their grip on one another, his jaw clenching so hard that he could hear the sound of his own dentae grinding against one another.

“The sire and I...fell out. I don’t like speaking about him. And I can only assume the same applies to him.”

Reverb’s visor glinted. “Does _he_ know about his creation?"

Jazz grimaced. “Of course. And it’s only because I’m here that it’s still alive.” The lie rolled off his glossa smoothly and for the first time since the conversation began, Jazz had no misgivings about being dishonest. “I don’t want him anywhere near either of us.”

Staring at him, Reverb nodded. “I can understand that. A creator does what’s best for their creations.” With a small whirr, the orange visor snapped up and Jazz froze as a pair of golden optics stared at him, seeming to look past the opaque blue of his visor and staring directly into his soul. They were almost like Soundwave’s, just a tad rounder and certainly livelier but they lacked the warmth that Jazz’s former lover’s had carried. All of a sudden, it was easy to tell that the affability the mech had been exuding was only surface-level. It was a well-rehearsed act, a strung-out charade that Reverb played to make gullible people fall into a sense of false security. Lesser bots would’ve probably gushed their Sparks out, but Jazz had been born with a bitter deep sense of paranoia ingrained into his mind.

Once, Prowl had told it’d get him killed. But it seemed that today...it had been the only thing that’d kept him alive.

Fingertips traced the edge of his cheek, so soft he almost didn’t notice them. Then the crook of an index finger touched his chin and Jazz lifted his head up a little further, lips pursed into a thin fine line. The red mech’s gaze traced over his entire faceplates, narrowing slightly as if he were observing a work of art and committing it to memory.

“You’re very brave, Meister.” Reverb said softly, smiling as if he hadn’t just threatened and pushed all of Jazz’s buttons. “I admire your tenacity. And your dedication to your creation is nothing short of awe inspiring. As I said before, you’re going to make a great creator.”

A soft pinch to his chin and then Reverb receded, leaving a cold draft in his stead. He wiped some imaginary dust off the plexiglass of his chassis. “I do believe you were in the process of heading back to your chambers to recharge before I interrupted you, yes?”

Jazz nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Reverb chuckled. “Please, I’m not Argyrus. You don’t need to call me that.” He waved his hand through the air, dismissive. “Just call me ‘Reverb’.”

“Alright. Reverb.” The name tasted sour on Jazz’s glossa, like an Energon goodie gone bad but he smiled as best he could and slowly rose to his feet. Reverb leaned his head back to catch Jazz’s gaze as he began to make his way back inside, the same easy smile on his lips.

“Chin up, Meister. I have a feeling you and I are going to become good friends.”

Jazz left the ominous statement hanging in the air and tried his best not to scramble back inside. When he found himself back within the manor, he hunched over, hands on his knees, and invented heavily for a few kliks. In and out, in and out, regulating his intake patterns and forcing his internal fans to snap online. His frame felt feverish, the back of his mouth slightly burning and he was suddenly reminded of the smelting Pits back in Kaon. He’d been dangled over them once or twice during the war and the fumes of heat that’d curled and melted his plating seemed to surround him right then and there, ghostly sensations making his armor flare and prickle.

He rubbed his arms, fighting off a shiver.

It dawned on him that he’d never gotten his Energon rations but his frame was tired, verging on the edge of lethargic and he knew he needed to hurry up and get to his chambers or else he was going to collapse.

He ignored every bot that he walked by on his way there, all of his focus on his feet to make sure he didn’t accidentally trip over himself. The last thing he wanted was to keel over on his faceplates and have someone else be forced to lug his frame back to his berth; after his talk with Reverb, his paranoia was at an all-time high and just the thought of being in such a vulnerable position made his battle protocols spring to life.

When he finally made it underneath the soft covers of his berth, the saboteur curled into a soft fetal position, arms wrapped around his torso and chin pressed tightly against his chest. He didn’t feel safe, not anymore, and every single strut in his body was screaming at him to get out of this place. His mission was technically over; he’d needed proof that Argyrus was involved with the dissension festering on Cybertron and he had it. Video feeds and audio tracks from the tiny bug he’d planted underneath the large table in the dining room. Messages shared between him and Odeon in the dead of the night cycle.

He was guilty. Plain and simple. And Jazz had the names and pictures of most of the bots working underneath the representative. That was enough to implicate them all.

His job was done.

And it was time for him to make his escape.

Jazz couldn’t afford to spend another minute underneath the estate’s roof. He just couldn’t. With that resolution in mind he closed his optics, activated his proximity sensors and tried to get some much-needed recharge.

When he finally drifted into unconsciousness, he was glad to find it free of any unwanted memory influxes or dreams.

 

~~~

 

“Rumor has it you’ve been scaring servants right out of their frames.”

Reverb smiled, pausing in his drinking of the green cube in the kitchen to turn around and stare at the purple mech standing in the doorway of the room. Raising an optic ridge, he said, “And that concerns you how, exactly, Makeshift?”

The purple shifter stepped into the room, steps silent and movements so fluid it would be easy to mistake him for a shadow. But Reverb’s sharp senses heard every little creak his frame made, and he felt nothing but amusement as the purple mech made his way to his side.

“It doesn’t.” Makeshift said, shaking his helm. “But Demaxx seems fond of the mech. I would suggest caution.”

Optics narrowing, Reverb hissed. “And who are you to tell me what to do?”

The shifter was stoic in the face of his anger. “Since I’m the one that got you a dead Autobot.”

“Quaint. You were supposed to kill the Prime. An insignificant little mech is nothing.”

Makeshift scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “You do know Jazz singlehandedly came the closest, out of all the Autobots, to actually taking down two members of the Decepticon’s upper command circle right? He got into Megatron’s berth chambers and it was only pure dumb luck some idiotic recruit tripped the perimeter alarm that woke him up in time to catch the blade aimed for his Spark. And nobody but Starscream knows about the incident that involved him sneaking into his washracks and nearly slicing his wings clean off.”

Reverb downed the rest of his drink and put the empty cube in the sink, turning to face the mech with a grimace on his face. “That’s in the past, Makeshift. I don’t appreciate you reveling in it. It takes away your focus from the things currently at stake.” The host mech pushed past him and headed for the exit of the kitchen but a strong hand gripped his shoulder and forced him to a halt.

“If you want to keep that hand...I suggest you let me go.”

Makeshift’s grip only tightened. “You won’t hurt me.”

“I can.” Reverb said, smiling dangerously at the mech over the cusp of his shoulder. “And I will.”

The hand on his shoulder disappeared but there was no fear on Makeshift’s face, only understanding. “You’re restless,” he mused, narrowing his optics. “You reek of it.”

The red host mech rolled his optics. “Please. Don’t start with that again. It makes you sound more of a freak than what you already are.”

Normally such a phrase would’ve made the purple mech bristle but coming from the red host mech, it only made him smile. “Says the host mech. Honestly, you seem to forget that you have tiny little heathens that loiter the halls, siphoning energy from your Spark and recharging within your chassis.” Makeshift pretended to shiver in disgust. “Not exactly normal.”

Reverb chuckled. “Touché.” He lifted a corner of his mouth in a half smile, expression then turning serious. “Why are you here? I thought you were training our recruits.”

“I was,” Makeshift said. “Until Radiance came out and all but demanded to have a turn. I sought out Rethelia...but she seems to be absent from the estate. Argyrus, too, so I searched for the only remaining authority figure that could possibly have a chance of instilling some discipline in that youngling. You.”

“You’re amusing to assume the brat listens to anyone.”

Makeshift frowned at the offending title. “He’s your sister’s creation.”

“And Argyrus is my kin through the rites of conjunxes. But that doesn’t make me hate him any less. Radiance is my sister’s responsibility, not mine. Let the brat do what he wants; if he gets himself killed or injured in the process, oh well.”

“You’re joking.”

For a brief moment, Reverb said nothing. He merely stared into those deep scarlet optics with pursed lips, gauging for a reaction. But when he received none, he shrugged. “Only a bit. Radiance is a youngling so I can forgive his...eagerness to be involved. But I don’t appreciate it when he sticks his nose in where it doesn’t belong.” His noseplate twitched, as if he smelled something horrid. “It’s part of why I cornered that little servant that’s been teaching him those little tricks he’s been amassing out on our guests. Hopefully, there won’t be any more incidents.”

Makeshift raised an optic ridge. “The one Argyrus sparked up?”

Reverb chuckled but he didn’t answer right away. “Yes...that one. Meister. Quite the oddball if you ask me.”

“Rethelia seems to be taking Argyrus’ blunder quite well for a conjunx that found herself wronged. I’m surprised she hasn’t sent someone to terminate them both.”

Tsk-tsking, Reverb replied. “My sister isn’t one to hold a grudge. You of all mechs should know that. And besides, it’s not the first time a lord has sparked up a servant. It happens all the time. By law, the youngling won’t have any power or claim to Argyrus’ wealth or estate. So, there’s no need to worry.” A cold smile crept onto his face, his visor dimming. “And even if the little mech tries anything funny, nobody will miss him if he ends up...oh I don’t know...missing.”

“You’re horrible.” Makeshift chastised but there was no mistaking the smile in his voice.

“Oh, I know.” Reverb said, grinning. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Now, then. Where is the little heathen that’s been giving you so much trouble?”

Makeshift tilted his head to one side, communicating wordlessly with someone else, then he blinked and focused on Reverb once more. “The foyer. Demaxx has him distracted."

“Perfect. I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you again.” And with that, Reverb made his exit without so much as a backward glance. Makeshift watched him go with narrowed optics and as soon as the red mech was out of sight, the smile fell from his lips. As if on cue, a shadow crept up from the corner and slithered its way to his side, black shine glimmering and morphing until it took the shape of a familiar dark grey frame. Red optics stared up at Makeshift with concern, optic ridges furrowed.

“You don’t seem happy,” a smooth feminine voice murmured.

Makeshift closed his optics briefly and sighed. “I don’t appreciate mechs who find it so easy to talk about hurting younglings,” he explained.

Dark red painted lips twitched into the start of a smile. “You don’t even like younglings.”

“No. But everyone has to impose limits on themselves. I, for one, don’t find any pleasure in harming creatures that don’t have the capacity to fight back.”

Flareup scoffed. “Careful, Makeshift. You’re starting to sound like an Autobot.”

“Hardly,” the purple shifter hissed, upper lip curdling in disgust. “As if Autobots care for the limitations that they impose on themselves.” Something unspoken lingered in his words and the grey femme caught onto it immediately, her own scarlet optics narrowing and glimmering with pain.

“Demaxx is an Autobot,” she said, remembering the femme that Makeshift had mentioned earlier in his previous conversation. It was a half-sparked effort to turn the conversation towards something less damning.

Makeshift shook his head. “She stopped being an Autobot the moment her entire team was massacred because of her commander’s incompetence. She’s learned the err of her ways.” He paused, then added. “Besides, she was never truly an Autobot to begin with. She only joined because that stupid conjunx of hers wanted to ‘do the right thing.’ He got himself killed and she saw reason.”

“Of course,” Flareup said, voice saccharine. “But a redeemed Autobot is still an Autobot.” Before Makeshift could retort, the femme placed a hand on his arm, promptly bringing his attention to something else. Eons of companionship and fighting side by side made them privy to the subtle tics of their personalities and Makeshift knew, just from the light touch on his arm, that Flareup brought news. She’d gone to Iacon to for investigative purposes, under the radar of course, and had only just recently returned.

“What did you find out?” He asked, leaning down to press his lips to her audial. Her arms came up to wrap around his neck, a smile on her lips when she felt his arms snake carefully around her waist. To any other outsider, they were simply reveling in a public display of affection, but neither was sentimental enough to ever indulge in such an act for the sake of pleasure.

“Reverb’s little spy is having trouble following through.” She said softly. “The interrogation of the two bots is still ongoing.”

“Nea hasn’t cracked?” Makeshift asked, appalled more by that than the obvious waste of resources on Prowl’s behalf.

“No. They brought in Vortex but he hasn’t been able to go into any of those torture sessions that truly allows a mech to crack. That little Autobot of his has been keeping him on a leash.”

“Any knowledge of what they plan to do next?”

Flareup nodded. “Rumor has it that Prowl’s put in a word for Soundwave. But ‘big blue and dreary’ hasn’t been easy to locate. I scourged around that filthy little alcove he called home and found it empty. He’s missing.”

“Missing?” The incredulity in Makeshift’s tone was hard to overlook.

“Yes. But 50 shanix says he’s definitely not MIA like everyone thinks he is.”

Makeshift narrowed his optics, leaning back to stare into Flareup’s optics. “He’s coming here.”

The femme nodded, face grim. “But since he hasn’t told anyone about where he was going, it’s safe to assume he isn’t coming for us. I was careful; nothing I did could be traced back to us. At least not without Nea’s testimony. But I gave Reverb’s little spy some...encouragement. Y’know, to keep up with his end of the bargain and all.”

For a moment, Makeshift said nothing. But then he sighed, and leaned back to his full height, arms falling to his side. “Regardless, we have to be ready. Make preparations. If things go south, our survival is more important than anything.”

“More important than the ‘dawning of a new Cybertron’?”

Makeshift scoffed, fixing the femme with a stern look. “You know it’s about much more than that.”

Flareup sighed, rolling her optics. “I know. But you have to admit that it sounds stupid if anyone but Reverb is saying it.” She leaned against his side, huffing. “Kind of like that phrase Optimus used to say to boost his mechs’ morality.”

“On that,” Makeshift said, “we can most definitely agree.”

 

~~~

 

Odeon was dying.

Jazz had forgotten about the mech after his itneraction with Reverb; his fear and paranoia keeping his mind of his interfacing drive for a small while. But his frame had refused to remain as nervous as he was and in the middle of one of his breaks, he'd started looking for Odeon. But after a few hushed conversations with other servants and several kliks of searching around the estate, he found himself standing in the doorway of Jespa’s medical bay, staring at the still and prone form of his temporary interfacing partner lying on the medical cot. His orange colors were dull, optics offlined, and patches of grey were peeking in near his feet and the tips of his fingers. Wires and monitors were hooked up to him, their steady beeping the only indication that his impending doom was slow and gradual.

It took all of the saboteur’s energy to keep himself upright and find his voice in time to ask Jespa just what the Hell was going on.

“Poison.” She said simply, standing at her desk and trying to compare notes on the two datapads she held in her hands. Frowning, she set one down and focused on one, glossa peeking out as she concentrated. “I’m not sure of the mixture but I’ve managed to slow down the effects so I can work on an antidote.”

A few more moments of pondering then she glanced up, expression one of hard sympathy. “I’d like to tell you he’s going to be fine, but I’m not knowing for my empathy.”

Jazz shook his head, stepping in and coming to a halt beside the orange mech. “I don’t want you to sugarcoat anything,” he said. Too many mechs had lied to him in the past, in his life, in his berth, to his face. He appreciated the truth more than people’s efforts to spare his feelings.

Jespa’s expression didn’t change. “I don’t plan to.”

The saboteur wished with all his Spark that First Aid was here; for all that Jespa could do, she hadn’t had the training Autobot medics had during the war and so her knowledge of poisons was limited. First Aid would take one scan and immediately know how to cure it.

“I’m no expert on microbiology or chemistry,” the femme said, almost in response to Jazz’s inner musings. “But I have a reputation of having very few patient deaths on my record and I’m not about to let dear Odeon here ruin it.” She offered a determined smile at the dark grey mech, green optics flashing in conjunction with each word.

“Do we know what caused this?” Jazz asked after a moment, staring at Odeon’s slack faceplates intently.

A huff was his response. “Judging by how the damage is centered around his fuel tank and pump, I’d say ingestion. So probably some contaminated Energon. Odd since all of our supply is triple filtered. Argyrus may be many things but even he wouldn’t let the mecha who run his place starve.”

Jazz recalled the odd paleness when Odeon had left him to tend to Reverb during the dinner service a few orns ago. He’d looked so tired, lethargic and weak. Something was said about Energon tasting kind of funny too.

Optics widening behind his visor, Jazz pulled up the memory and filtered through it. Odeon had definitely said something about his Energon not being filtered correctly and when Jazz had gone to the antechamber to pick up the plate he was going to deliver, no one had seemed all that surprised to see him.

Wait. Everyone except Crosswire. The mech had asked where Odeon was and when Jazz said he was feeling out of it, the mech had looked shocked. Disbelieving, almost.

“Has anyone been here to see him?” Jazz asked softly, looking up at Jespa. “Besides me?”

The femme thought for a moment then shook her head. “Not really. Other than you, I think I’ve only had one other mech wander through here a couple times.” She paused. “Crosscut or something. I can’t really remember the names of everyone unless they’ve been on my exam table.”

“Oh,” Jazz said, a grimace crossing his face. He had a vague idea of what had happened and he was struggling to calm himself before storming off to do what he wanted to do.

Something in Jazz’s posture caught Jespa’s attention and she lowered the datapad in her hands, fixing him with a stern glare. “Have you been taking your daily rations?”

“Yes,” Jazz replied seamlessly, turning to face her. “I have.”

Green optics glowed brightly for a few nanokliks and Jazz felt the familiar tingling sensation of a scanner passing through his frame. A sharp ‘tsk’ later, he found himself being loomed over by the taller frame of the silvery white femme.

“Your energy levels are dwindling.” She said sternly, “And your haptic net’s been flickering on and off for the past orn or so.”

She knew all that from the scan alone? Jazz smelled a fib. No doubt she’d been keeping tabs on him; it made sense why the other servants stared at him all the time. His frame hadn’t changed enough that his carrying state was showing so he knew it wasn’t because he’d been turning into an odd deformed version of his former self.

“I’ve been...busy.” And it was the truth. The influx of guests had forced Aster to rescind his whole “no interacting with the invitees” declaration so Jazz had once more been put into the normal service rotation. The various guest rooms had to be cleaned daily and the guests weren’t careful about being tidy; more often than not he found himself wiping Energon goodie residue from tables and floors and chucking transfluid stained sheets into the hall to be collected and washed. He’d often had to skip a refueling here and there and though his frame had ached from the lack of nourishment, the bitlet was relatively healthy.

“I can offer a medical note to pull you out of your duties.” Jespa said and it sounded more like a threat than a genuine offer. Of course Jazz didn’t want that; the last thing he needed was to be the center of attention again, especially when he was still in the process of planning his escape. His schedule had him sequestered in the estate and he’d had no assignments that let him outside its walls without drawing attention to himself. Not to mention the entire grounds were crawling with mechs that were capable of gutting him if he so much as looked at them wrong.

He was simply biding his time.

“I’ll take them. Properly.” He promised, hoping his word was enough to abate her. It seemed to work, even if for a moment, and she let out a sigh of exasperation.

“Carrying isn’t a game, Meister. You have to be consistent. One orn you’ll find yourself fine and even under ideal circumstances, things could go wrong and I’ll find myself having to decide between saving you and saving the bitlet. Not something I’m fond of so please, do try to be careful.” Her optics narrowed. “Remember, you decided you wanted this. So, please...do your part to go through with it.”

Jazz’s smile was forced. “Of course.” He’d have liked to tell her he never asked to be stuck in this situation but he kept his mouth shut. He didn’t need to make an enemy of the only bot who seemed willing to have his back without a knife aimed at it.

A harsh knock on Jespa’s door had both turning to look as it slid aside and the big hulking form of a yellow paneled mech stormed inside, his large hands were cupped against his chest and he had a look of pure horror on his face.

Odeon and Jazz forgotten, Jespa rushed over to him, adopting the guise of professional stoicsm Jazz couldn’t help but admire. “What’s wrong?”

“Bitlet hurt.” The mech said, voice thick and tinged with an accent that reminded Jazz of Earth’s Russian. “Ze little one rushed in. Tankor crushed.” He tips his hands towards Jespa and the air seemed to grow ominously cold as both bots recognize the blue frame of Radiance. His optics are offline and had you only seen his face, you’d imagine he was sleeping. But his torso was caved in at the side and his legs were nothing more than struts with pits of blue metal hanging onto them like debris.

Nobody has the opportunity to say anything before an angry screech sounds and suddenly there are four or five mechs struggling to squeeze through the thin doorway; among the flailing limbs and bright optics, Jazz catches sight of Argyrus’ green frame. The saboteur stepped back a few feet when he saw the desperation in the mech’s scarlet optics, surprised by the sheer emotion lining every single edge of the representative’s person as he managed to finally push into the room. He almost pushed Jespa out of the way as he forces Tankor’s hands to lower down even further and a strangled gasp shook his entire frame.

“Radiance.” He choked out, sounding on the verge of a processor crash. He glanced up at the large yellow mech, bristling and spitting in torrid rage. “ _What did you do?!”_

Jespa narrowed her optics, scanning the tiny little frame and motioning for the large mech to follow her to the spare cot on the other side of the room. It’s amazing how agile the large bot is in following Jespa’s instructions, and before long, Jazz is nothing more than a spectator as he observes the attempt to save the tiny blue bot’s life. His Spark was stuttering, his pulse an uneven staccato and the crushed struts and lines in his frame were creating an array of internal fluid buildup, uneven energy diversion, among other things.

Jespa yelled for everyone to get out of her way but only a few listened.

Argyrus is silent for most of it, standing almost over the youngling with a protective aura surrounding him. It isn’t until Radiance starts to crash that he almost descended upon Jespa and it’s only Tankor’s quick thinking that has his pulling the green mech into his arms and holding him at a safe distance away.

Unease coiled through Jazz as the situation unfolded and he’s far too focused on it to notice that someone else was standing beside him now, their EM field hauntingly familiar as it dabbed at the edges of his before eventually reaching out and meshing.

Blinking to awareness, Jazz whipped his helm around to stare into the orange visor of Reverb. He wasn’t not looking at Jazz, his attention fixated solely on the unfolding turmoil before them, and his lips carried an odd little upturn near the corners. He wasn’t not smiling, not really, but he’s not exactly the quivering anxious mech that Radiance’s sire was turning out to be.

There’s a coldness to him and Jazz couldn’t help but swallow roughly as that feeling surrounded him, wrapping him in a cocoon that exudes anything but safety. Instinctively, he puts a hand over his ventrum and subtly pivoted his frame away. Turning your back on an enemy is dangerous, Jazz knew that, but like Hell he was going to prioritize his own well-being over his bitlet’s safety.

Whatever Jespa and everyone else thought, he wasn’t completely Sparkless.

“What are you doing?!” Argyrus’ screeched, clawing at the arms wrapped around his waist and pinning him back against a yellow chestplate. “What are you doing?!” It seemed to be the only thing he was capable of yelling as Jespa worked and the distraught in the voice was enough to draw Jazz’s attention to him. This was, after all, the mech that called the youngling a brat, who spoke of him as if he were nothing more than a nuisance and very rarely displayed affection for the little blue bot that carried a portion of his Spark and CNA.

Yet there he was, the only bot who seemed emotionally invested in the tiny bot, who looked ready to tear apart whatever and whoever dared to put little Radiance’s life in such danger.

Jazz felt his Spark skip a beat. Was that what creator coding was like? Capable of overpowering your rationale and logic processing centers to turn you into a screeching mess that was but a shadow of your former self? For a brief moment, Jazz pondered if he was somehow doing something wrong because while the drive to protect his bitlet was strong within him, he never found himself emotionally compromised. At least, not yet. Scared and anxious? Of course, but never so much that he couldn’t do anything but simper and cry out his creation’s name over and over until his vocalizer bleated static.

His own creation didn’t even have a name yet...

“It’s as I said,” Reverb’s smooth voice shot through the saboteur’s contemplations like an ion bolt. “Creators will do anything for their creations.”

Jazz didn’t dare look up at him. He didn’t trust that he could keep the look on neutrality on his face if he did. But he could feel the searing gaze of the host mech on him and an involuntary shiver ran up his spinal strut. For the second time in the past decaorn, he felt the overwhelming desire to make a run for it. It was stronger this time, more concentrated and his frame twitched as every ounce of common sense in his body told him to escape.

Mouth dry and Spark beating in his chest, Jazz felt his foot take a tentative step forth. His frame tensed, slowly and methodically, and the tiny knife in his subspace suddenly felt like a lead weight. Reverb’s EM field rippled with a mixture of amusement and anticipation, the taste of it sour on Jazz’s glossa.

But not even a moment had passed before the door opened and the quivering form of Aster found itself in the room. His optics were wide as he stared at the commotion on the far side of the room and his mouth hung open in surprise as the words died in his throat.

Argyrus paid him no mind. Neither did Jespa or Tankor.

But Jazz did and he narrowed his optics upon seeing the normally stoic retainer looking anxious and slightly petrified.

It was ultimately Reverb that caught his attention, smiling in spite of the situation. “What’s the matter, Aster?”

The white framed retainer blinked stupidly before looking at the host mech and dipping his head. “Lord Reverb,” he said, using the formal title that was reserved only for the owners of the estate. “I’m afraid we, uh, have a situation.”

“Go on,” Reverb said, tilting him helm towards the white mech.

Aster swallowed roughly. “We have a visitor.” He frowned and quickly amended his labeling. “A guest.”

Despite the sudden news, there was no surprise in the red host mech’s field. Instead, the anticipation grew exponentially and Jazz had to rescind his field for fear of drowning in its wake.

“A guest?” Reverb echoed, arms crossing over his chest. He glanced back at the medic working on the tiny blue bot and frowned, amusement flickering briefly in his field. “We weren’t expecting anyone.”

 _Liar_ , Jazz wanted to say but he held his glossa and merely frowned. On the other side of the room, he saw Tankor turn his helm towards them and the saboteur realized that the machines were no longer whirring erratically and both Jespa and Argyrus seemed to have relaxed as it dawned that Radiance was no longer in any immediate danger.

“Did this guest offer you a designation?” Reverb asked, orange visor focused on Aster. The white mech squirmed a little under the attention and Jazz’s frown deepened.

“Yes,” he replied slowly. “I believe he said his designation is Soundwave. And he's brought along several other smaller guests that are all but demanding to speak with you.”


	18. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion that's been a long time coming finally takes place.

_“you were not wrong for leaving_

_you were wrong for coming back_

_and thinking_

_you could have me_

_when it was convenient_

_and leave when it was not...”_

                                                                                      

—Rupi Kaur

 

 

“Are you sure this is the right thing to do?”

Soundwave paused in his observations of the grand mansion that lay before them, glancing down to look at his symbionts, his red visor glowing softly as he met the scarlet band of Frenzy’s. The symbiont’s lips were twisted to one side in apprehension and almost every one of his siblings echoed the sentiment. Laserbeak, who was perched on his shoulder, gave a sad squawk in response.

“We have to.”

Soundwave sent a pulse of affirmation through the bond, solidifying the aerial’s words. This was it. They’d left yet another of their old lives behind them and were on the threshold of beginning anew; it was a process they were well familiar with and though it pained them to leave behind the few friends they’d made, the experiences they shared, there was no other way the chapters of their stories would end. Because they were nomads by nature, always searching, always fighting but never truly belonging.

Except in one particular place.

The door to the grand estate creaked open and a lithe white mech filled the doorway, scarlet optics narrowed. “What do you want?” He asked, glancing around them for the guards that usually prevented anyone but the guests and owners of the estate pass through the front gates to the main entrance.

“We’re here to see Reverb.” Rumble said, crossing his arms over his chestplate. “So let him know where here, yeah?”

The white mech’s optics narrowed into slits. “And who are you to demand the presence of my lord?”

Soundwave stepped forward, irked by both bots’ standoffish nature. He wasn’t here to fight. “Designation, Soundwave. Reverb, old friend. Meeting requested, he will recognize my designation.”

For a moment, the white mech looked ready to retort but something in Soundwave’s posture caught his attention and he let out a huff. “Wait here.” He said stiffly and the door shut behind him. Frenzy and Rumble exchanged looks of disdain and Ravage let out a snort from her place beside Soundwave’s feet.

“Charming as ever.” She said, glancing up at her host. The blue mech merely shook his head in response.

“Time elapsed, significant. Estrangement, unavoidable.”

Ravage rolled her optics. “Please. It’s only been a couple hundred eons. You’d think they’d have the decency to remember the mech who single-handedly managed to—.”

“Enough.” Soundwave chided, cutting off the feline’s rant. Ravage’s optics glittered with surprise but she complied. He wasn’t particularly fond of exerting such authority over his symbionts in such a way but the situation called for order. He was nervous, unsure of how the mechs in the estate would react to his presence and the last thing he needed was the dredging up of old memories that had the capability of affecting his emotional centers.

Whatever happened next, he had to be ready.

In less than a few kliks, the door to the estate burst open and every single one of their ventilations halted for a moment as they observed the newcomer that stood before them. His red plating was a new change, a radical deviation from the normal greens he usually donned, but his familiar blocky shape, bright orange visor and smooth lips pulled into a smile were unmistakable.

Even after so much time, he hadn’t changed.

Reverb let go of the door and regarded each of them with amusement, EM field reaching out to mesh in greeting.

“Well, well...” He drawled, gaze sweeping over the symbionts before slowly taking in Soundwave’s form and resting on his obscured face. “Long time no see, eh?”

Soundwave swallowed roughly, fighting the lump rising in his intake. “Reverb,” he said simply and in that single glyph, one could hear the deluge of emotions that the blue host mech felt for the other. Surprise, slight confusion, admiration...and beneath it all, affection.

True, genuine and unadulterated affection.

Reverb took heed of it and a genuine smile graced his features, visor flaring brightly in mutual fondness as his façade of stoic coolness finally fell. “Sounders.” He took a step forward, careful not to step on Rumble or Frenzy’s toes, and proceeded to wrap the blue host mech in a tight hug. It was slightly uncomfortable and their plexiglass chassis made a horrible soft noise as they pressed against one another but neither seemed to care; their hands found the nearest seam in the other’s armor and dug into them, holding on with a ferocity that spoke of a hidden history that was held in communal esteem.

Reverb grinned, his cheek pressing against one of Soundwave’s side vents. “I thought you were never going to come.” He admitted, displaying a momentary weakness that he quickly covered with humor, clapping the blue host mech on the back before retreating to meet his gaze. “Rethelia said she saw you at the bonding party, the one between the Seeker and the grounder, but she said you didn’t even look at her for the entire event.”

Soundwave huffed softly. “Negative. Argyrus created dissension, Rethelia commissioned to put him in his place.”

The red mech titled his helm to one side. “What’s up with that voice modulation? Is it a wartime modification?”

Hesitating, Soundwave reached up to place a tentative hand over his intakes and his visor dimmed. He shook his head. “Negative. Soundwave, received injuries during the war. Vocalizer, badly damaged. Modulator, aids in verbal communication."

Laserbeak, now once more reclaiming her spot on Soundwave’s shoulder, gave a sad warble of affirmation. The rest of the symbionts nodded grimly and Reverb’s field pulsed with a mixture of disdain and sympathy.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to dredge up bad memories.”

“It’s okay,” Rumble said, shifting his feet. “We’re over it.”

Frenzy nodded. “Soundwave’s gotten used to the new modifications. So, don’t feel bad for him.”

Reverb’s optics glowed behind his visor at the symbionts words and he couldn’t help but smile. “I bet. Soundwave’s always been a fighter, even before he turned into the big bad Decepticon warrior the world seems to know him as.” Bending down, he took in the tiny forms loitering around Soundwave’s pedes, his attention zeroing on Ravage.

“Hello there,” he said, reaching a hand out towards her with his palm facing the floor and fingers relaxed. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Ravage made a noise that was in between a purr and a growl. But a small nudge through the bond had her dipping her helm respectfully in Reverb’s direction, though she paid no heed to his extended limb. “Ravage,” she replied curtly and her tail gave a few quick flicks across the ground.

Her cold reception did little to hinder Reverb’s mood and he rose to focus on the only other symbiont he had yet to personally greet. Immediately, like almost everyone that first met the aerial, his expression softened when his attention landed on the red and black form of Laserbeak who was hiding a bashful expression behind a raised wing.

Reverb chuckled. “Still have that crush on me, Laserbeak?”

The aerial trilled a negative but her field pulsed with an incriminating warmth. She eventually dropped the shy act and extended her head in the red mech’s direction, a purr vibrating through her entire frame when the other host mech crooked a finger and rubbed her favorite spot just beneath her beak.

Rumble and Frenzy gave Reverb’s legs simultaneous punches in greeting and though the red mech moaned about the pain, it was obvious that it was just an act. But despite their like for the other host mech, he wasn’t the one the twins were itching to see.

“Is Asynchronous around?” Rumble asked, shooing away Reverb’s affection head pats and staring up at him with an inquisitive look. “I wanna see him.”

“Me too!” Frenzy quipped, his momentary apprehension of the whole situation evaporating in the wake of the other symbiont’s mention.

Tapping the tip of his index finger on his lower lip, Reverb stood up and furrowed his optic ridges. “Asynchronous? Hmm. I wonder where he ran off to...” A sharp tap on the plexiglass brought him out of his faux contemplation and he grinned, tapping the button just beneath the glass and popping open the cover. In a flash, a blur of red agilely emerged, sailing through the air and landing with graceful poise in front of the eager looking bipedal twins. The dark red symbiont grinned, extending his arms towards them.

“The terror twins,” he said, deep voice almost melodious. “Can’t say I’ve missed you.”

A strong ‘oof’ escaped him when both Rumble and Frenzy tackled him in a hug, knocking the ventilations out of him and forcing them mech to take a few steps back inside before he lost his balance and disappeared beneath a wave of flailing black and blue limbs. It was almost comical, the chirrs of endearment the two symbionts were giving the red little bot and as Reverb laughed at the commotion, Soundwave felt his Spark swell in his chest.

For a moment, it was just like it had been before. There had been no war, no destruction, and it’d just been them enjoying each other’s company. Before long, Laserbeak and a newly emerged Buzzsaw got swept into the reunion, flying circles around the wrestling bots and letting out demanding squawks.

Reverb and Soundwave observed for a few moments before the red mech snapped out of his reverie, stepping aside and gesturing for the blue mech to enter. “I’d say ‘welcome home’ but this place really doesn’t hold a candle to the old place. But it comes close enough.” Once the door was shut and everyone was inside, Reverb placed a hand on Soundwave’s shoulder to give it a reassuring squeeze.

“But honestly, it’s good to see you, Soundwave.”

Soundwave dipped his helm, “Agreed.”

“Is it really him?” Both bots whipped their helms to the entrance of the foyer, where a familiar blue femme was gripping the doorway with excitement flaring in her green visor. Her lips were parted into a grin and she let out a giggle as she trotted up and wrapped the blue host mech in a hug that rivaled Reverb’s in strength. Soundwave’s arms were pinned to his sides so he waited until the femme let him go before giving her a much softer hug in return.

“Rethelia,” he intoned, tone warm.

The femme shook her helm and pulled back to full look at him, “Oh Primus, I didn’t expect to see you here! I just got back from restocking the supplies and I heard from the guards that you were here and I just had to come see for myself.” She took a deep invent, clasping her hands together and pressing her thumbs against her blue painted lips. “I’m so happy to see you, Soundwave.”

Soundwave smiled behind his mask, “Likewise."

Frowning, Rethelia reached up to place a couple of tentative fingers against his faceplate, tracing the seams with a quiet sense of confusion lingering in her optics. “You’ve started hiding your face, again.” The accusation was almost as obvious as her disagreement.

“Affermative.”

“But why? You have such handsome faceplates. It’s unbecoming of you to hide them.” She jerked a thumb at Reverb, an unamused look on her face. “This idiot parades his face around as if he’s Primus’ gift to the world and he’s not half as pleasing to the optic as you are.”

Reverb scoffed. “I take offense at that!”

“Oh please,” Rethelia retorted, hands on her hips. “Since when do you have the capacity to feel shame?”

Soundwave watched the two of them descend into a momentary argument and he felt the twins’ amusement over the bond as they rose to their pedes and watched the two siblings argue. Though their words were harsh, it was easy to detect the delight in their EM fields and everyone knew that they were merely poking fun in the way only siblings were capable of.

That, Soundwave thought happily, hadn’t changed either.

“Anyway!” Reverb said loudly, cutting off Rethelia’s retort and focusing on Soundwave. “I think it’s time for the grand tour, don’t you think?”

“Tour?” Rethelia questioned, then realization dawned on her and she nodded. “Oh, right! Come on, I’ll show you!”

Reverb’s hand on her shoulder stopped her from pivoting on her heel and marching them right through the estate. The femme’s visor glinted questioningly and the red mech gave a sad sigh, motioning for Soundwave to wait a moment before dragging the femme a little further away. In hushed tones, Reverb told Rethelia something that made her flinch sharply and her hands curled into fists. But she said nothing, only giving her brother a terse nod when he finished and jogging away.

Frenzy grimaced. “What’s wrong?”

Asynchronous and Reverb exchanged knowing looks before sighing in defeat. “Rethelia’s youngling got injured earlier; just before you two arrived. He’s safe now but he’s going to need some frame reconstruction before he’s back on his feet.” That orange visor focused on Soundwave. “Radiance. I think I told you about him when I sent you that message a while back, remember?"

Soundwave nodded slowly. “Affirmative.” It was difficult to keep the worry from seeping into his voice, his gaze lingering on the doorway that Rethelia had used to make her hasty exit.

“Kid’s gonna be okay,” Asynchronous said, placing an arm around Rumble and Frenzy’s shoulders. “Don’t go worrying so much about him. These things happen, especially when the youngling’s just as adventurous and fearless as his carrier.” He gave both twins a not so gentle push, grinning when they almost stumbled facefirst into the ground. “Come on, you lot. Reverb’s got a bunch of new recruits that I’m sure are itching to meet you.”

All the symbionts perked their heads, excitement in their optics. “Symbionts?” The myriad of gold and red optics on the red host mech didn’t even make him flinch. “You got more symbionts?!”

“20 new additions.” Reverb said rather proudly. “Most of them like to crawl through the vents and cause trouble but I’m sure you’ll find some loitering about in the gardens. Just be sure to take some sweets outside with you and they’ll be stumbling over their feet just to meet you.”

Silence met his words but it only a nanoklik before every single one of Soundwave’s symbionts was begging Asynchronous to take them to the kitchens. The red bot gave a hearty laugh and motioned for them to follow and everyone except Ravage made their way behind him; Rumble and Frenzy were at either of his sides, asking questions and demanding answers.

When they finally departed, Reverb scoffed in gentle amusement. “Those four never do manage to grow up, do they?”

Soundwave shook his helm. “Symbionts, forced to endure atrocities during war. Experiences, made them eager to indulge in simple pleasures.”

Ravage sneezed.

“Aren’t you curious to meet my symbionts?” Reverb asked her, careful to keep his distance.

The feline flicked an ear, glanced up at Soundwave then proceeded to slink away to disappear into the shadows. Her pawsteps were audible for a brief moment but then they too disappeared. The two host mechs were left in silence.

“I’m guessing she doesn’t like me very much.” Reverb observed, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Ravage, understands our relationship.” Soundwave explained. “Ravage’s trust, takes time to build.”

Reverb nodded. “That makes sense. I’m guessing you met her during the war, yeah? It’s normal for a symbiont to be wary of others like she is. Makes her bond to you all the more worthwhile.” He smiled and jerked his chin towards the inside of the mansion. “Come on, then. There’s plenty of things for you to see, bots to meet. I want you to be feeling at home before the solar cycle is up!” A hand reached out to clasp Soundwave’s shoulder and the blue mech could only comply as he was dragged out of the foyer and into the illustrious stair hall, where a winding set of stairs circled around the large domed enclosure and met at the very top floor. A single chandelier hung from the ceiling, glimmering and bouncing off the golden walls in a way that made it seem like they were rippling. Beautiful paintings, some of Argyrus, others of Rethelia were hanging on the parapets.

The air smelled of expensive waxes, clean metal and freshly circulated air. In a way, it did smell like home and a bit of nostalgia bloomed in Soundwave’s chassis, wrapping his Spark in its familiar warmth. A long time ago, the blue mech had lived in a place as grand as this but that was some ways back in the past...before the war had even been an idea.

“Rethelia was the one who wanted the golden alloy,” Reverb explained as the loitered in the center of the grand reception room. “I told her it clashed too much with the paintings but did she listen? Of course not, my sister never listens to anyone.” The red mech paused, casting a curious glance at Soundwave. “Except you. She always seemed to do what you told her, even when we were younglings.”

Soundwave shrugged.

Reverb smiled knowingly. “She once told me that she never wanted younglings. And that if she ever did have any, they’d be yours. But I guess that plan didn’t work out so well, did it?”

“Negative,” Soundwave replied, voice soft. He remembered exactly what the red mech was referring to. Rethelia had always been partial to him and more than once she’d expressed her desire to court him. But Soundwave had never felt as much as a connection with her as she did with him; it was only the war’s occurrence that’d saved him from having to actually deal with her misplaced affections, a small mercy that was ultimately not worth everything that he’d lost in turn.

His Spark twisted in his chest, a painful reminder of the very reason he’d decided to come back to the companionship of Reverb and Rethelia, and it took all his effort not to falter in his step as he followed the still talking Reverb up the first set of stairs. They walked past a couple plainly colored servants that were polishing the handrails, a few which gave him wary but curious glances. He gave them the faintest dip of his helm in response but they took it as something other than a greeting because they lowered their gaze and continued with their own work.

A strange prickling sensation traveled down his spinal strut and the blue mech halted, frowning. He whipped his helm around to glance over his shoulder but found that nobody was even looking at him but he could still feel the familiar sensation of somebody’s else’s optics on him and he couldn’t help but feel unnerved.

“Soundwave?” Reverb’s voice took his out of his paranoid cogitations and he glanced back to see the red mech fixing him with a stern look. “Are you alright?”

Soundwave knew better than to divulge his worry onto the mech so he simply shook his head.

Reverb didn’t look convinced. “Did one of the servants say something to you? I’d be more than happy to put them in their place.” His words were said good naturedly but there was a hidden undertone of danger that Soundwave was more than familiar with. It didn’t scare him nor did it deter him from his affections either; Reverb had gone through his own experiences when the war had taken everything from them, after all. He wasn’t the soft-spoken youngling Soundwave had known in his youth; he was different, jaded.

“Soundwave, in need of recharge.” He said instead, finally acknowledging the fatigue in his frame after spending so much time traveling. A warm cube of Energon and maybe a couple joors of rest would probably help him be more focused and less wary of things that probably weren’t even there. He wasn’t among Autobots and Decepticons anymore, after all.

He was among family.

Reverb smiled at him, understanding. “Tired, I see? Well, I’ll have someone escort you to a spare room. We’re a little booked right now but I’m sure we can squeeze you in somewhere.” He snapped his fingers and automatically one of the servants polishing the railing made his way over, wiping the wax off his fingers with a fresh new cloth.

“Yes, m’lord?”

“Crosswire, please, do me the favor of finding Soundwave a room he can peacefully recharge in. Maybe get him some Energon too and a couple spicy sweets while you’re at it.”

Crosswire bent his torso in a bow that almost had his helm touching the floor. “As you wish.” He said reverently and when he glanced up, he gestured for Soundwave to follow with a respectful dip of his helm. Soundwave found the treatment a little odd but he accepted Reverb’s gesture of goodwill and fell in step behind the mech, his own gaze roving over the mansion as they made their way deeper into its structure.

As he moved, he was relieved to find that the feeling of being watched had finally disappeared.

 

~~~

 

“Where are you going?”

“Hey! Those are our cleansers. What are you doing with them?!”

“Are you looking for Odeon, you little slut? He ain’t here!"

Jazz ignored the questions being aimed at him by the other servants as he stalked through the servants’ quarters, grabbing fresh mesh cloths, bottles of cleanser and other amenities that he knew he was going to need once he was back on the road. The cloths and small things he needed to be kept as clean as possible went in the tiny metalbox he’d brought with him and his subspace was being kept clean for the cubes of Energon and coolant that he was about to steal from the kitchens.

He stopped to glance around him every so often, making sure that no flashes of blue and scarlet had snuck into the room without him noticing. The logical part of him kept reminding him that Soundwave wasn’t here for him, that the blue idiot probably thought he was dead and his arrival was nothing more than a coincidence.

But Jazz’s critical thinking centers kept prodded him with relentless questions, building on the anxiety and fear that was already festering in Jazz’s Spark until the saboteur finally snapped and decided that he was escaping.

Right now.

Why was Soundwave here, anyway? Megatron and Optimus hadn’t mentioned him or even included him in their plan in the first place and had there been any changes, Prowl would have found a way to get the message through to him. Sure, almost a couple decaorns had passed since he’d managed to get a message back to Iacon but Prowl was smart enough to know that silence meant more than the death of an agent. Often times it simply pointed out to the possibility that there had been complications in the mission and the agent was keeping a low cover to avoid detection. He wouldn’t send someone in unless he had clear proof of death or compromisation.

And even if he had...why Soundwave?

Closing the metal box and placing it snugly under his arm, Jazz made his way towards the kitchens, making sure to keep to the shadows and following the route that was bound to have the least amount of foot traffic. He didn’t want anybody to know that he was leaving.

The kitchens were empty, surprisingly but Jazz didn’t allow the brief reprieve to slow him down. As careful and quiet as possible, he hacked the lock for the pantry and made his way inside, not bothering to turn on the lights. He knew the color of the cubes gave away their contents and so he pulled as many blue Energon cubes as he could into his subspace, squeezed in a couple yellow-green coolant ones and chucked in one or two High Grade ones for the Hell of it. He couldn’t drink any alcoholic beverages at the moment but if push came to shove, they’d make excellent explosives.

There wasn’t enough to fuel him for the five orn trip back to Iacon but it’d keep him on his feet until he left estate’s grounds; whatever happened, Uraya wasn’t safe for him anymore and his priority was getting out of the city-state’s boundaries first. In his condition, the time it’d take to accomplish the feat was already doubled so he needed to hurry.

He arranged the cubes so the absent ones weren’t too noticeable and quickly snuck outside, snapping the lock back on and giving the area one final sweep before making a beeline for the exit that was reserved for the cleaning servants. A giddiness had settled into his chest, maybe because the smooth sailing was making him paranoid, and Jazz felt lightheaded as he traveled through the grungy corridor.

His head kept glancing back every few nanokliks to make sure the coast was clear and his grip on the box under his arm was tight enough to make the sturdy metal cave under his fingers. But he didn’t care; he’d be ditching the box soon, anyways.

He made a sharp turn, intent on taking the tiny hall that led out to the gardens but he came to a screeching halt upon finding that a group of servants were already loitering about the exit. They were sharing what smelled like a barium inhalant between them and their giggles and slurred words told exactly what condition they were in.

Definitely not bots Jazz wanted seeing him escape. Thankfully, none had noticed him so he was careful to ease himself backwards back around the corner. His balancing gyros strained under the effort, his frame no longer capable of the stealth he’d been known for, but he secretly preened when he managed to avoid falling flat on his aft.

Of course, that was difficult to do when you found yourself stepping on a foreign object that mostly definitely hadn’t been there when you’d last made your way through. The thing was thin and round, kinda sharp and it _moved_ when Jazz’s heel dug into it.

It also let out an ungodly yowl that sounded akin to a dying animal.

The box fell from his arms with a clatter and his hand groped the wall as he felt himself falling, his fingers thankfully managing to catch onto a seam and hold on tight enough for him to catch his balance.

“What the slag--?!”

Jazz froze, optics widening behind his visor as he snapped his helm up to look at the owner of the familiar feminine voice.

There, standing in front of him with a very angry look on her face as she flicked her slightly bent tail, was Ravage.

“Oh, fuck me...” Jazz moaned, prompting the feline to snap her scarlet gaze onto him. For a moment, she didn’t recognize him but then her nose gave a tentative sniff and her entire frame flooded with a wave of shock and disbelief. Tail forgotten, she took a small step towards him, hackles raised and ears plastered against her head.

“Who are you?” She hissed, tail quivering dangerously behind her. “Answer me!”

Jazz felt a tiny ray of hope filter through the darkness that’d settled around him and he swallowed roughly, wincing as he brought himself fully upright and bowed. “Meister,” he said, lowering the octave of his voice. “I’m but a humble servant in this estate.”

Silence met his words. Jazz swallowed the lump of fear the risen in his intakes and dared to look up, forcing himself to remain still and impassive in the face of those ruby depths. He could see that she was confused because that nose of hers had no doubt picked on his scent but it was different, altered radically by the tiny bitlet in his gestation chamber and the decaorns of his life spent in a different location.

Not to mention, Jazz was also officially dead to the public. And her reaction answered one of the burning questions that’d assaulted the saboteur since he’d heard of the blue host mech’s arrival on the premises.

Soundwave didn’t know about Jazz. So that meant he hadn’t come here for him and his reasons for his presence were something else entirely. For what? Jazz didn’t have time to care; he needed to get out. And quickly.

If not to escape then far enough away that he could open a commlink with Prowl and tell him everything that’d happened. Reverb and Soundwave would no doubt catch wind of it and his cover would be blown and he’d be a dead mech within orns. But at the very least, his efforts wouldn’t be futile and his death would have meaning.

A small prod, subtle and gentle, could be felt near his ventrum and for a moment, Jazz though he’d imagined it. But then it happened again and he choked back a gasp as he realized it for what it truly was.

The bitlet. The bitlet had _moved_.

Now? Of all times, it chose now? Jazz didn’t know whether to be overjoyed or annoyed.

“You’re carrying.” Ravage said, taking a tentative step forward and sniffing a little more deeply. The confusion in her optics deepened but at the moment, there was no recognition. She didn’t know it was him...and even if she did, she was smart enough not to go about making assumptions she had no evidence for. “I can smell it.”

“My bitlet is not an ‘it.’” Jazz hissed, placing a protective hand over his ventrum and taking a step back.

“Apologies,” Ravage said stiffly, her frame relaxing minutely.

“You’re forgiven.” Jazz intoned, bending down to pick up his metal box. He gave it a small shake and sighed in relief. Nothing sounded broken.

Ravage narrowed her optics, head tilting to one side. “Where are you going?”

Inspiration struck and Jazz replied, “Cleaning,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve been scheduled to give the washracks in the guestrooms a good cleaning and polishing but I can’t seem to find my companion who’s on the same rounds with me. Crosswire’s his name, and I’m worried that I can’t locate him.”

Understanding lit up Ravage’s optics and she gestured down the way Jazz had come. “He’s showing the new arrival to a room in the guest chambers. I just came down this hallway and if you take—.”

“I know the way,” Jazz said, smiling forcefully. “Thanks, _kitty-cat_!”

For a moment, the pet name went unnoticed by either of them. But in less than a few nanokliks it clicked and Ravage whipped her helm around to stare at the dark grey mech with a dangerous look in her optics.

Jazz cursed.

“ _You_!” she hissed, voicing rising an octave. “It’s you!” Without any warning, she launched herself towards him with her claws extended. Jazz reacted instinctively. He swung the metal box in his hands with as much force as he could physically muster and prayed with all his might that his aim was decent.

The edge of the box managed to hit the side of Ravage’s head, cutting her off mid-yowl and sending her crashing into the wall in a terrifyingly loud clatter of flailing black limbs.

Without stopping to check if she was knocked out or not, Jazz garnered all of his courage and strength and made a run for it. His footsteps echoed on the floor and his Spark was pounding in his audials but he didn’t dare stop. He didn’t bother tracing the path from which he came; instead, he wrenched open a door and flew up a small flight of stairs. Not long after, he made his way through a series of interconnected storage rooms, emerging in a hallway that took him towards a rarely used drawing room that Jazz instantly recognized for having two different entrances. Quickly, he shut the door behind him and tugged a thin lamp from the side, breaking the top and sliding the pole through the door handles in a makeshift barricade.

He allowed himself a moment to catch his bearings, internally scanning to make sure the bought of intense activity hadn’t caused his bitlet or his frame any injury. His bitlet was restless, shaken by the stress he was exuding, but was relatively unharmed.

Good. That was good. He knew that he was in deep slag but it never hurt to focus on the few good things in the midst of so much dissension; it helped center him, reminding him of the fact that it wasn’t just his own life in danger anymore.

He was fighting for two now. Inventing and exventing deeply, he felt his Spark slow down to a steady beat and turned to face the opposing entrance to the messy room. If memory served him, it’d lead out to a public hall and it’d be a small journey down the flight of stairs in the stair hall and he’d be able to sneak out through the veranda connected to the main dining room.

It was more public but he trusted himself to hold himself up for just long enough to make his exit. He was compromised now, so it was now or never.

Hands curling and uncurling in anticipation, he grabbed the door, wrenched it open and made his way onto the other side...

...only to run smack dab into another mech with enough force to make him momentarily see stars. Dazed, Jazz stretched out an arm to find something to catch himself and felt a wave of relief upon feeling a large hand wrap around his arm and pull him back onto his feet. The same hand traveled to his shoulder, providing support and another cupped the back of his lolling head.

“That slagging hurt!” Jazz wheezed, rubbing his forehelm with one hand and dabbing at his busted lower lip with the fingers of the other. Damn, of all the things that could go wrong, he just had to crash into some mech in the middle of his escape. He knew he wasn’t at the top of his game but come on!

He wasn’t that bad, was he?

“Injuries, nonfatal.”

Time stopped. Jazz’s Spark gave a pathetic and weak little whimper before it too seemed to come to a complete halt inside of his chest and all he could feel was a numbing coldness that immobilized his struts and made the Energon in his circuits freeze.

That voice...that voice had haunted his recharging cycles for countless quartexes. The one he could never truly figure out if he’d missed or dreaded hearing once more.

When the black and white dots faded from his vision, Jazz slowly lifted his gaze upwards and his optics widened as he came face to face with that familiar red visor, the white battlemask and the smooth metallic smell that Jazz could never really get out of his olfactory senses.

His voice died and all he could muster was a pathetic warble of static.

Soundwave tilted his helm to one side, confused. But before he could even ask a question, Jazz placed his hands on that warm plexiglass covering his chestplate and pushed back with all of his might. The blue host mech wasn’t expecting that and he stumbled back a few steps, just enough so that Jazz could duck underneath his outstretched arms and make a beeline down the hall.

But he hadn’t even made it five steps before his arm was wretched back with enough force to make his shoulder joint creak painfully and the breath was knocked out of his frame as he found himself being pushed against forcefully against the wall. A hand wrapped around his throat, not strong enough to cause damage, but powerful enough to make his HUD flood with notifications that warned of a foreign pressure on such a delicate part of his frame.

Jazz struggled, kicking and clawing at the nearest plating his hands could reach, intent on doing anything that was necessary so he could just _get away_.

“Desist!” Soundwave growled and the sheer force behind the command was enough to make Jazz stop, fingers frozen as they curled around the ones Soundwave had lodged around his intakes.

An uneasy silence passed between them and Soundwave’s hydraulics hissed as he relaxed, the sound making Jazz’s vitals do funny things.

“Designation.” Soundwave demanded into the quiet, his hand falling from Jazz’s throat now that he realized the danger had passed.

Jazz stared at him incredulously, irrationally hurt that the host mech hadn’t even bothered to teek him, much less recognized him. Jazz would’ve known it was Soundwave in a Sparkbeat, even if his frame had been different, he knew he would've been able to tell Soundwave apart from any random mech without so much as blinking.

But Soundwave didn’t care. He’d never cared, not enough, and Jazz felt the barrier holding back all the pain and the hurt and the anger he’d been bottling up falter and it all came crashing down like a deluge of acid rain. Ventilations speeding up, Jazz’s lip curled into a snarl and he pushed back against the mech once more.

Soundwave didn’t even budge.

“Don’t recognize me?” he hissed, blue visor flaring as it stared up into that red optical band defiantly.

“Negative,” Soundwave intoned, voice ominously flat.

Jazz laughed, the sound unexciting and mirthless. “Figures. All this time I spent thinking about you...and you don’t even have the decency to remember me.” With that, he unfurled his EM field and slammed it against Soundwave’s, using what he knew about field manipulation to hold onto the telepath’s and pour all that Jazz felt in that single moment.

Soundwave froze, visor dimming until it flickered off and Jazz felt momentarily triumphant. But his euphoria didn’t last long; within moments, that red visor flared on and Jazz once more found himself being pressed against the wall; Soundwave’s field was in disarray, alternating between disbelief, pain and anger. A perfect replica of the saboteur’s, right down to the tiny smidgen of guilt that floated around the edge before being washed away by everything else.

“Jazz.” Soundwave hissed, battlemask snapping back to reveal a cold grimace.

Jazz snarled, “You don’t get to hiss at me, you slagger!” He struggled against the mech’s hold, dentae snapping towards the faceplates leaning so closely towards his. One upon a time he would have reveled at the proximity but only broken memories accompanied the visage and the SpecOps agent in him was eager for some retribution.

Soundwave put his free hand over Jazz’s mouth, cupping it so that he couldn’t manage to bite his fingers. Jazz hated how soft the metal was against his derma, smelling faintly of that familiar off world waxing solution he’d claimed to love.

“Query: what is your purpose here?” The telepath paused, then added before dropping his hand, “Explain, quietly.”

Jazz scoffed, ignoring the way his body thrummed at the sound of those harmonics. “I’m doing something that needs to be done. This place is at the center of the dissension and I aim to find out what’s happening.” He paused, then smirked. “And you? I highly doubt you came here to find me. You’re good but you’re not that good, _baby_.”

At the pet name, Soundwave dropped him and Jazz let out a yelp when he landed on his side, his frame complaining at the sudden impact. His Spark gave a small stutter and a cold wave of fear, instinctual, passed over him. Groaning softly, he struggled to right himself and one arm carefully cradled his torso. A moment later, his Spark slowed and he relaxed when no warnings popped up on his HUD.

But the quickly relief faded as a familiar metallic tinge pirouetted across his glossa and he glanced up, optics wide behind his visor as he noticed that his EM field was still flaring wildly. The blue host mech receiving everything was now stiff and staring at him with something resembling shock and incredibility in his own field.

Jazz cringed, cursing.

“Explain.” Soundwave growled, pointing a finger at Jazz’s lower torso. “ _Now_.”

Jazz pursed his lips, shaking his helm vigorously. “Slag off.”

A flare of anger and Soundwave grabbed him by his collar flaring, firmly but far gentler than before. It wasn’t at all comfortable and if Jazz had the strength, he wouldn’t have been so compliant.

“ _Explain._ ” Soundwave demanded once more, repeating himself like a broken record. “ _Now._ ”

Before Jazz could open his mouth, a small gasp sounded and both mechs whipped their helms around to stare at the large mech standing in the hall, panels flared and green optics wide.

Soundwave stiffened and then quickly forced himself relaxed, letting Jazz fall to his feet before visibly straightening up. “Crosswire.” The blue mech intoned, readopting his monotone voice.

“Soundwave, sir.” The servant bowed slightly, “Apologies. I think I lost you somewhere near the drawing rooms and didn’t notice you’d gone missing until—”

The telepath shook his helm, “Apologies, not necessary.” His tone shifted to something warmer and Jazz knew the mech was no doubt struggling to calm his EM field. Meister had never met Soundwave after all and angry or not, the telepath knew better than to blow Jazz’s cover. Especially since he had no idea what the saboteur was doing here in the first place. “You are forgiven."

Jazz pursed his lips, staving off the pain lancing through his spark and the curling sensation in his tanks. Oh, how he wanted to throttle the mech until his Energon bled onto the ground and his Spark was reduced to a burning pile of—

He blinked, realizing that Soundwave had stepped back and Crosswire taken his position beside him, optics wide as they took his frame in. “Meister? What are you doing here?”

Jazz rose shakily to his feet, well aware of the fact that the servant was asking out of necessity rather than actual care. “Yeah, don’t worry. I’m fit as can be.”

“What happened?” Well, Crossfire was certainly playing the part of worried peer quite devotedly, wasn’t he?

Jazz smiled widely, “I bumped into our Lord and reacted quite inappropriately. He was merely putting me in my place.” He glanced at the stiff blue mech behind them, lower lip sticking out in a faux pout. “I pray all is forgiven, my lord?”

Soundwave hesitated, then said. “Affirmative.” Both servant mechs noticed how the telepath’s blue hand curled into a shaking fist at his side.

It made Jazz preen but Crossfire was more afraid than anything. Placing a hand on Jazz’s shoulder, he gave him a gentle push down the hall. “Aster’s asking about you,” he said quickly. “You missed your shift and he’s not happy with you.”

Jazz sighed. “Alright. I’ll go see him right now.” Not even sparing Soundwave one final glance, the saboteur made a hasty escape. Every single step that drew him away from the telepath made his Spark heavy but he ignored the sensation, drawing on his anger and focused on that instead. He was a compromised agent and he didn’t have the luxury or time to wallow in the misery that broken promises and failed love affairs had procured.

All that mattered was getting out. Before Soundwave had a chance to ruin everything.

 

~~~

 

Ravage had a horrible pounding headache. She didn’t even have to look at her reflection in a mirror to know that there was a nasty little dent in the side of her helm. Every sway of her body made the entire room turn and she hissed when a small jump nearly had her processor blowing to bits inside her helm.

She needed to get to a room; somewhere quiet and empty where she could lay her head and gather her bearings before heading off to get repairs from Soundwave. There was much she had to tell him, particularly about an odd little mech that smelled and acted suspiciously like Jazz. Before, she hadn’t been sure it was him because he smelled different. But when he’d used the pet name he’d reserved for her during their war on Earth, all hesitation had been cast aside.

It was him.

And, most importantly, he wasn’t dead.

She didn’t know how to feel about that. The night that she’d lain with her siblings and Soundwave, grieving for the saboteur after his ‘death’ had been announced, was still fresh in her mind and the wound was raw and painful. She’d done her best to block her side of the bond when she realized she’d run into Jazz but some of her shock and pain had bled through and Soundwave had pounded against the barrier she’d pulled up, demanding to know her location and condition.

Moments later, his side had gone silent and then the wave of emotions told the feline that he’d no doubt run into the fleeing saboteur. He’d expressed disbelief and anger but deep down, Ravage could sense the desire and joy her host mech had been aching to express. Soundwave had wanted nothing more than to press Jazz against the wall and kiss him senseless but like the big idiot that he was, he’d gone and made a bigger mess of everything.

Not that she could blame him. She’d be angry and hurt too if someone she’d loved had been declared as dead and turned up not only alive but carrying someone else’s creation as well.

 _That_ was just another question to be added to the growing pile. Who was the sire of Jazz’s creation...and why the frag had the saboteur let himself get sparked up in the first place?

Ravage came to a halt in front of a door and gave it a tentative sniff; it smelled empty and she nosed her way inside, slinking underneath the berth without even bothering to scope out the room. She couldn’t see all that well, anyways.

But she hadn’t even closed her eyes before the door burst open and the familiar pitter-patter of footsteps and the flapping of mechanical wings sent a bolt of white hot pain through her entire neural net.

Rumble fell onto his hands and knees and peered under the berth at Ravage. His gasp upon seeing her was almost comical, “Jazz!” He whisper-shouted. “Jazz!”

“Be quiet!” Ravage hissed, switching to their spark bond and casting a cursory glance around with narrowed optics. They were in a mansion full of host mechs and cassettes, after all, so it never hurt to be paranoid.

 _~ I can’t believe he’s here!~_ Rumble squeaked and three more pairs of optics appeared on either side of him, indicating that the rest of Ravage’s siblings had finally managed to settle down. _~Think the boss knows?~_

_~They ran into each other near the foyer. Soundwave was livid.~_

_~But he’s been talking nonstop about the Autobot. Why would he—~_

_~You forget Jazz is supposed to be dead.~_ Ravage said sternly, optics closed as her helm began to ache. Her tail whipped to and fro across the floor, movements terse and jerky. _~Optimus lied to us.~_

 _~But why?~_ Laserbeak trilled, her newfound affection for Megatron’s mate fueling her confusion.

Ravage cracked an optic open to give the aerial a sympathetic glance. _~I don’t know. But for now, we assume that Jazz is undercover and we make no attempted contact that risks blowing his cover.~_

 _~But if Jazz is here…~_ Frenzy murmured, optics narrowing. _~That means the House is under investigation. Why?~_

 _~That’s what we have to find out.~_ Ravage said softly. _~Everything that’s been happening; the attempt on Optimus, Jazz’s supposed death, the dissension in the streets. I have a feeling Reverb’s not letting us in on everything that he knows. So we have to find out ourselves.~_

 _~And Soundwave?~_ Buzzsaw grunted, worry for his host mech filtering through the bond.

Ravage sighed. _~Believe me, Soundwave has enough things on his plate right now. This stays between us, alright?~_

Four pairs of optics stared at her blankly before they shuttered on and off in silent confirmation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel it's necessary to remind you all, especially at this point in time, that this is a JazzWave fic; I just had a shit ton of angst and conflict planned out for it.


	19. Suspicion Is An Old Friend Of Mine

_“take me into your heart and into your world._

_believe me when I say—I can adapt._

_cause baby,_

_winds don’t stop when territory changes.”_

                                                                                      

—Mayush

 

“Soundwave.”

“Soundwave...?”

_“Soundwave!”_

A dark visor flickered briefly online, illuminating the ill-lit room with a soft red hue that quickly turned stark and vermillion when it fully booted online. Blinking unrest from his golden optics behind the visor, Soundwave focused on the owner of the voice and he slowly came to realize where he was.

He was in a berth, slumped from where he’d been resting his back on the headrest, and Ravage was seated between his legs, her helm leaning on her paws as she eyed him with narrowed red optics.

Soundwave sighed, the sound deep and heavy. “Ravage,” he intoned, wincing as his back struts creaked in protest as he moved to correct his posture. The datapad he’d been reading was cast off on the side of the berth, offline and the telepath grimaced as he remembered what he’d been doing before he’d gone into involuntary systems recharge. Articles upon articles depicting Jazz’s death had been scourged through for joors on end as he attempted to find something, one little thing, that directly contradicted with what he’d discovered the previous orn.

Jazz was alive.

Alive. As in living, talking, with Energon flowing through his circuits and that incandescent glimmer in his blue visor.

Of course, he’d found nothing but he had more than enough physical evidence to prove the reported news false. Both from him and the ebony feline currently pawing at his ankle to get his attention.

“What?” He asked, retracting his battlemask and rubbing his exposed faceplates with his hand.

Ravage’s left ear flicked. “You didn’t recharge correctly,” she admonished, gesturing to the messy but unmade berth. “You know that’s not good for you.”

Soundwave hadn’t expected the simultaneous burst of inquiry from her sent to him through the quantum link but he was careful not showcase his surprise, stretching the kinks out of his joints and following her inane verbal chatter with ease.

“Situation, unavoidable.” He said, snapping the tungsten alloy mask back over his exposed facial features. Immediately, his deep harmonics were masked by the modulator and his familiar monotone echoed softly around the room.

“You could’ve unmade the berth before settling in to do your pre-recharge reading,” Ravage said haughtily, sitting up and flicking her paw. “You know, like a normal mech?”

The telepath grimaced behind his mask but his annoyance was forgotten when he noticed something odd about the side of her helm. Ignoring her rhetorical question, he leaned forward and reached out to hover a couple fingers over what looked suspiciously like a dent; it wasn’t large but it was deep and the angle indicated it’d been done by someone larger (and stronger) than his symbiont.

Red dotted Soundwave’s vision and he turned to stare into Ravage’s scarlet optics with a cold menacing glare.

“Query: where were injuries obtained?” It was an intentionally open-ended question; Soundwave knew someone had hit the feline but he was offering her the opportunity to be honest with him. Despite the bond they shared, she responded poorly to questions that sought to push her against a metaphorical corner.

Ravage grimaced, pulling her head back from his touch. “Nobody.” She said forcefully. “I hit my head while crawling through the vents.” If Soundwave noticed the barrier hovering near her side of the bond, ready to be put up at a moment’s notice, he chose not to draw attention to it.

But it was difficult to even give into her secrecy when she was deliberately being so blasé about her explanations. Hitting her head while scourging through the ventilation shafts? As if any of the symbionts he trained would be so careless and clumsy.

“Ravage, lying.”

The feline huffed. “Am I now?”

“Affirmative.”

Sensing that she had no way of talking herself out of her fib, she finally relented. Turning her head so Soundwave could properly see the rather unsightly dent, she gave a haphazard rise and fall of her shoulders. “One of the servants stepped on my tail. It hurt like the pit so I tried to give him a good throttling to let him know _how much_ it stung but he bashed me in the head with a box while I was mid-jump.”

Soundwave frowned; a servant had gotten the best of Ravage?

But then something cold and icy gripped onto his vitals and a nagging suspicion curdled in his tanks, reminding him of the horrible concoction of emotions he’d been forced to endure during the previous solar cycle.

The inquisitive feline quickly caught onto his train of thought and nodded, gauging his reaction. “Meister.” She assented, careful to use Jazz’s undercover name. “He has...decent aim.”

 _For a carrying mech_ , was the unspoken part of her sentence and both of them flinched at the words.

A heavy silence fell upon them, thick and palpable, and it made their plating crawl with unease. Ravage was unnerved by Soundwave’s taciturnity; unlike those mechs that claimed her host mech was an unfeeling drone, she understood that was just an act and Soundwave was capable of showcasing as much emotion as the next mech. This was the perfect time for him to unleash his anger and yet all she could detect from him was a mind-numbing sense of disbelief. A big part of her wanted to dive into his side of the quantum link but doing so at such a time would be nothing more than a violation of his privacy.

So, she knew the only way to know what he was going through was by getting him to talk.

 _~Jazz is carrying.~_ She said sternly, leaning back to sit firmly on her haunches as she gauged her host mech’s reactions.

Soundwave glanced away, hands curling into fists.

Expression softening, Ravage leaned her head forward a little. _~Soundwave,~_ she said. _~What are we going to do?~_

“Ravage, desist.” The anger in those two words would’ve been enough to make any other bot flinch back but the ebony feline was undeterred. Resolute, she slunk forward a little closer and adopted the no-nonsense tone only she could get away with because of the many eons of experience she had over him.

 _~No.~_ She hissed, optics narrowing into red hot slits. _~Like it or not, he’s here and he’s carrying. I don’t like it any more than you do but we can’t step foot outside this room without having a clear plan put into place. The last thing we need is for Reverb or Rethelia to catch onto the fact that they’re harboring a spy...or that you know and haven’t told them.~_

Soundwave stiffened for a moment, visor flaring nearly white in his surprise before dimming; his shoulders sagged slowly in defeat. _~What do you expect me to do?~_ Each word is bitten, rough and raw around the edges.

Ravage sighed. _~Maybe try to decide if forsaking Iacon was truly the correct course of action?~_

Immediately, Soundwave whipped his helm around to face her and it was easy to imagine the angry look his hidden features were no doubt sporting. “No.” He all but hissed, shaking his helm and clambering to get off the berth. Ravage ducked underneath one of his legs to avoid getting hit in the helm again and she pivoted herself in place to watch the blue host mech stand begin to pace. His movements were terse and jerky, punctuated by clenching and unclenching fists and the seemingly constant shake of his helm.

She wanted nothing to do nothing more than head into the city-center to hunt for some glitchmice and maybe take a nice nap on one of the upper surface levels that actually receieved some light. But here she was talking Soundwave through this as if he were a youngling; in any other situation, the telepath would easily be able to calculate the quickest and surest solution to any dilemma but this time was different. He was emotionally compromised and that was something he wasn’t used to dealing with.

“Soundwave,” Ravage said, head swiveling as it followed his movements to and fro. “Please, listen.”

“Negative.” Soundwave said, pausing only to shake his helm vehemently in her direction. “Ravage, impertinent.”

That made the feline snort in dry amusement; her? The disrespectful one? She was trying to help center him, to make sure that his rationale never deserted him, especially during times as trying as these. It took a while but she eventually calmed herself down enough to try again; voice slow and measured, she prodded for an answer and to the relief of the ebony symbiont, Soundwave paused in his pacing and turned to look at her.

 _~Returning to Iacon is out of the question.~_ He said, calmer than he looked. _~It’s impossible.~_

Ravage’s optic ridges furrowed. _~Not if you come back with information.~_

Soundwave narrowed his optics.

She pressed on. _~You know as well as I do that you need to take action. Report back to Optimus, Prowl, whoever’s in charge. Jazz has been compromised.~_

_~I can’t.~_

_~Can’t?~_ Ravage pressed, field flickering dangerously. _~Or won’t?~_

Soundwave was unaffected by the silent accusation in her tone. _~Revealing Jazz’s condition reveals us here. We came of our own accord. You know as well as I do that automatically makes us look suspicious.~_ He paused. _~Besides...if Jazz allowed himself to be sparked during a mission, the consequences fall to him.~_

Ravage’s upper lip curled into the beginning of a snarl. _~I don’t believe you.~_

_~What?~_

_~I don’t believe you’d callously turn someone away like that. Especially one that you’d--!~_

The look in the mech’s optics made her trail off, the last glyph dying into glyphs of static. She saw the silent challenge in his gaze, even with that infernal red optical band obscuring his optics from view, just daring her to voice the truth teetering on the tip of her glossa. Paws kneading the soft material underfoot, she turned her helm away with a barely restrained hiss of exasperation. 

They weren’t going to get anywhere talking like this. They could speculate and ponder and talk hypotheticals for the entire solar cycle but tensions and emotions were far too high to make any rational decisions. Especially when it came to huge decisions that had lives hanging in the balance. Whatever they decided, Jazz’s life was in danger either way.

It certainly was on Hell of a situation; messy and complicated, with so many variables and probabilities obscuring their future.

A sharp knock snapped them out of their thoughts and Ravage’s frame bristled as she caught a whiff of the new arrival behind the door. That spicy metallic smell had been clogging her intakes since she’d arrived.

“Reverb,” Soundwave said, almost sounding relieved when he opened the door to reveal the grinning red mech.

That orange visor glimmered with amusement as it took the blue mech’s appearance in and Ravage resisted the urge to snarl when it’s gaze fell on her. “I hope I haven’t interrupted something?” Reverb said, glancing between the two with a bright grin that said he wasn’t at all apologetic.

Ravage knew that whatever she and Soundwave had been discussing was now on hold and any chance she had of scoping out more information was gone. Absurd timing but when was anything every truly convenient? Giving herself a brief shake, she hopped down from the berth and shook her helm.

“Soundwave’s free.” She said, not even bothering to look up at the red host mech as she brushed past him out the door. “I have brunch that I need to track down.”

As the feline disappeared, Reverb turned to look at Soundwave, field flickering with confusion. “Brunch?”

Soundwave took a moment to shake off the unease of the conversation he’d previously been engaged in before answering. “Earth euphemism.”

“Ah, well, seeing how I’ve never been her witty remark fell on deaf audials, unfortunately.” Reverb’s visor flickered as it focused on him, the tiny band of light narrowing to a thin fine line. “How are you?

Soundwave hesitated. How was he? Not good, though those words failed to encompass just how conflicted and in turmoil he was. But he wasn’t completely lost either. Despite it all, there was a greater amount of happiness in his Spark now than there had been in decades. Away from the political web of lies and manipulation of reconstruction and the threat of deactivation gone with the war, he found himself holding onto a thin tether of hope. It was fragile and thin, easily broken if he held on to tight, but so used to holding precarious things in his hands, the task wasn’t too difficult. He held on with all that he was worth.

Looking to the mech before him, the worries never went away but the warmth of Reverb’s field soothed the unease and he couldn’t help but be drawn to him like a moth to a light. And Reverb welcomed him with open arms, just like he always had.

For a brief moment, Soundwave wondered if he’d been overthinking things. Here, beneath the roof of this estate, lay two pieces of Soundwave’s life that he’d sworn he could never live without. All this time he’d spent believing that he had to choose, that he couldn’t have one without sacrificing the other.

But what if that wasn’t true?

What if he could have both?

As he and Reverb walked down the hall towards the dining room, Soundwave cast a side glance at the red mech and pondered. Seeing that kind glimmer in his visor and familiar grin, the telepath knew that Reverb would welcome Jazz if he knew just how much he meant to Soundwave.

And Jazz...Jazz would understand. He had to. Because hadn’t he told him that family was all that truly mattered in this world? When they’d lain together in that little berth in that dingy little inn and Jazz had pressed his face against Soundwave’s neck, their legs tangled together and hands clasped between them, the saboteur had told him that the only thing that kept him going was the promise of the love and support a family offered. To him, Optimus and Prowl were his home.

He’d understand that Rethelia and Reverb were his.

He had to.

Whatever prompted Megatron (Soundwave knew without a doubt his former leader was the chief instigator of the whole plot) and Jazz to investigate Rethelia and Reverb, surely it was a misunderstanding. Some lapse in communication that could easily be gleaned over if Jazz would simply sit down and _listen_ to him.

“I heard you had a bit of trouble yesterday.”

Soundwave blinked, snapping out of his musings and replaying the latest memory file to catch up on the Reverb’s conversation. Catching on, Soundwave shook his head.

“Negative.”

Reverb grinned. “It’s quite alright, Soundwave. No need to be shy.” He waved a hand through the air. “You’re a friend of mine and Rethelia’s and by extension, a lord of this House. It’s in your right to throttle any of those in the lower household that give you trouble.”

Soundwave nearly tripped. Reverb was talking about his run-in with Jazz.

The red mech caught onto Soundwave’s surprise easily through their meshed fields but misinterpreted for something it was not. “Don’t worry, I’m not mad. Crosswire told me about that little courier that gave you a bit of trouble when you were settling in and I made sure the mech was punished.” He paused, an unreadable look in his visor. “Though, I had to be lenient. Given the fact that he’s carrying and all.”

The telepath said nothing.

They came upon the stair hall and proceeded to make their way down the stairs, footsteps echoing through the large ornate room. Stepping onto the ground floor, Reverb took the lead and they made their way to the ornate dining room which was full of mechs and femmes that Soundwave didn’t know, though a few gave him an odd sense of deja-vu. Reverb placed a hand on his shoulder and led him to two empty seats near the edge, right beside Rethelia who was balancing a silent youngling on her thigh. On the femme’s other side sat Argyrus, his pinched features indicating he’d rather be anywhere but there.

Soundwave needed no introduction to any of them, though the little blue and grey bot in Rethelia’s lap turned to look at him and his tired optics lit up with childish curiosity.

“Are you a new recruit?”

Rethelia shushed him gently by popping a chunk of crystalized Energon into his mouth.

Soundwave turned to Reverb, confused. “Recruit?”

The red mech waved his hand, as if brushing the comment off. “That’s what we call the mechs and femmes that take refuge in here. Some of them are old war veterans and so we try to use military terms to make them feel more at ease; discipline and order and all that.” He smiled proudly. “But really, this estate is nothing more than a refuge. A sanctuary for bots that have no other place in this world. Reminds you of him, doesn’t it?”

Soundwave glanced around, taking in the scenery quietly. In a way, Reverb wasn’t wrong. His sire, a former Senator, had found himself fascinated by the oddities that society often produced and he’d offered his own estate in the very same way when he’d lived in what had been Uraya before the war. He’d been naïve, too trusting and too curious about the wonders that lay in castes beneath his.

It’d gotten him killed. Eons before Megatron the Gladiator had started speaking against their entropy ridden society and the lower castes realized the meaning of the word ‘revolution.’

But Soundwave didn’t mention that out loud. Far be it from him to shatter the dream Reverb had been talking about ever since they’d reconnected after the war ended.

A pair of hands placed a plate with Energon crystals in front of him and Soundwave whipped his helm around, disappointment gnawing at him when he realized the servant that’d served him wasn’t Jazz. The servant, a silver mech with green optics, was one that Soundwave recognized as Crosswire; he looked scared but even then, he occasionally glanced up at Soundwave with intrigue swimming in his optics.

Soundwave narrowed his own behind his visor but said nothing.

Thankfully, Reverb tapped his arm and brought him out of his observations into a conversation he could use to keep his mind off of everything.

“Sounders!” Rethelia said, smiling over her brother’s shoulder. “I heard you were living in Iacon ever since reconstruction began. Know of any decent real estate?”

The telepath hesitated. Odd question but he quickly surmised that they were probably interested in knowing what’d he had been doing all this time. “Iacon, expensive.” He began, shaking his helm. “Infrastructure, stable and well-grounded and the citizens are adequate. Nature as capital of new Cybertron, extremely obvious.”

Reverb tutted. “That’s where all the credits have been going, no doubt.”

Soundwave frowned slightly at the question; since when did they start talking about money? But he nodded, unable to deny the accusation.

The red mech’s grip on a crystal was hard enough to make it crack but he popped it into his mouth before it could well and truly shatter into pieces. Soundwave watched every single one of Reverb’s movements, observing and dissecting, protocols that hadn’t gone dormant despite the end of conflict still forcing him to overanalyze every minute little detail. Reverb was angry about something, though it had nothing to do with Soundwave, and only Argyrus and Rethelia seemed privy to what. The former with a knowing twist of his lips on his face while the latter laid a hand on Reverb’s shoulder, fingers squeezing reassuringly.

It was certainly an unusual dynamic.

“Carrier, I’m not hungry anymore.” The small youngling on Rethelia’s leg pushed away one of her offered Energon crystals, shaking his helm vehemently. Sighing, Rethelia murmured, “You have to eat, Radiance. Remember what Jespa said? Only by eating well will you regain full mobility in your legs."

Radiance grunted. “Not hungry. I’m tired.” He hesitated, then murmured something inaudible that made Rethelia hiss softly in contradiction.

Reverb rolled his optics discreetly without the youngling noticing.

“Fine,” Rethelia’s patience snapped and she turned to Argyrus. “Care to take him up to his recharging chambers?”

Argyrus looked surprised for a moment, as if he didn’t quite understand why Rethelia asked him instead of the white retainer standing a few feet behind them but he complied nonetheless.

“Fine.” And to Soundwave’s surprise, his voice was softer and sincerer than he’d ever heard. Rising from the table, Argyrus scooped the youngling into his arms and made his way out the dining hall; the telepath watched them go until the doors closed upon their exit.

“Bugger.” Rethelia said, proceeding to dust scraps of crystals from where Radiance had dropped them on her thigh.

Reverb laughed. “Quite.”

Soundwave found himself at a loss, something that the red mech beside him quickly noticed. Grinning, Reverb placed a hand on the blue host mech’s shoulder.

“Younglings these days have no concept of right and wrong, it would appear.”

Soundwave couldn’t help tilt his helm to one side inquisitively. Radiance hadn’t done anything wrong from as far as he could see; in fact, the youngling was doing remarkably well for one who still carried the grey medical plating of one who had yet to be properly reconstructed.

“One of the servants taught him a few tricks,” Rethelia explained frostily. “And Radiance thought that because he could sneak around, that made it alright for him to charge into one of the war veterans’ physical training groups. You can guess how that ended up.”

Her brother nodded in affirmation to her words. Reverb placed a hand over his Spark. “Nearly got himself stomped to pieces.”

Soundwave frowned slightly, the revelation not sitting well with him. His own Spark gave a small throb, reminding him of the connection he had with his symbionts, the closest thing he’d ever get to have to younglings. Granted, they were fully formatted adults, it still fell upon him to offer them protection and safety as it would any other decent creator.

“I’d have fired the little mecha responsible for teaching Radiance any of that slag but I found my hands tied.” The blue femme said, acid dripping into her voice. “The mech responsible apparently has a handicap that prevents any of us from simply kicking him to the streets as he deserves.”

The telepath asked, “Handicap?”

Both bots exchanged a glance before Reverb sniffed condescendingly and relented. “It would seem,” he said, “that our gracious host likes to force himself upon the household staff when my sister isn’t present. Can’t seem to keep his spike in his housing. Rethelia knew, of course, and she let him be because even I can attest to the fact that interfacing is something of a necessity.” He shook his head. “But that’s beside the point. Because Argyrus got a little too handsy with one of the servants and, get this, forced the unfortunate little soul to spark merge with him too.”

Something cold sprouted in Soundwave’s belly, trickling through his systems and curling into a tight ball of dreadful anticipation.

“The little mech’s sparked.” The red host mech said, as if it were the funniest thing in the world. “On the first try, too!”

Soundwave knew he should have kept quiet. Maybe if he had, the situation wouldn’t have been true. But he couldn’t stop himself from asking. “The servant’s designation?"

The smile that pulled at Reverb’s lips was eerily gleeful. “Meister. But something tells me you already knew that, didn’t you?”

 

~~~

 

“You missed a spot.”

Jazz rolled his optics, glancing over his shoulder as he balanced himself on the ladder that he’d been using to polish the large mirror in one of the drawing rooms. There, standing with a rather smug look on his face in the middle of the finally clean room, was Crosswire.

Jazz didn’t understand what he’d done to make an enemy of the mech but here they were; Aster had ordered him back to the servants’ quarters, claiming the room he had was to be used for new arrivals, and then proceeded to tell him that Reverb had compiled a list of to-do’s that he wanted him specifically to complete by the end of the solar cycle. It was a hefty list, with tasks that were too precarious for a carrying mecha but nobody bothered trying to defend him.

It was punishment, plain and simple and none of the other servants liked him enough to stick up for him or his bitlet. Which was just fine; Jazz didn’t care. He knew how to take care of himself, to look out for his own well-being when no one else did.

Soundwave had tattled, plain and simple, though he hadn’t said the whole truth or else instead of polishing mirrors he’d be lying dead in a ditch right now.

For some reason, that sounded more enticing at the moment. Certainly, much quieter than listening to Crosswire’s bitching.

Oh, there he went again. His carrying protocols had him rather moody and he found himself having to hold his glossa for fear of accidentally saying what he truly thought of the mechs that were set on irritating the scrap out of him.

Smiling sweetly, Jazz shrugged. “I don’t know, Crosswire. It looks mighty fine from this angle.”

The servant mech hissed, stalking towards the ladder holding him up and pointing an accusatory finger at the saboteur through the mirror. “Keep talking like that and nobody’s gonna slagging care that you’re carrying anymore. That thing inside you won’t protect you from getting kicked back out onto the streets.”

Jazz’s smile froze, jaw clenching.

Crosswire, sensing that his words finally held impact, couldn’t help but continue. “Argyrus doesn’t even want the brat. To him, it’d be a pleasure if the thing up and reabsorbed. Rethelia thinks the same way and you know it’s only her that’s stopping Reverb from sneaking into your berth and driving his hand through your—.”

“That’s enough.”

Crosswire’s voice died in a warble of static and he turned to regard the new figure standing in one of the room’s doorways. Immediately, the green optics of the servant mech widened and he dipped his helm in respect.

“Aster, sir.”

Argyrus’ personal retainer regarded Crosswire with something akin to disdain. “You’re dismissed."

“But, sir! I have to—!”

A hard-stern look from Aster cowed any retort Crosswire had and the silvery mech disappeared out the other entrance, mumbling something that only Jazz’s sensitive audials could hear. The room was left in merciful silence with his exit and Jazz, taking a deep breath, proceeded to continue with his work.

The door closed and careful measured footsteps made their way towards the saboteur’s position. Jazz felt the white paneled retainer’s gaze on him but he ignored it, the only audible sound being the gentle squeak of the cloth held tightly in Jazz’s fingers as it glided back and forth over the gleaming metal.

“Meister.” Aster said, voice firm and commanding.

Jazz thought about ignoring him, he really did, but he knew the consequences would be too severe and instead glanced down at the mech. “Yes, sir?” The contempt in the last word was nearly palatable.

Aster’s lips tightened into a fine thin line but he didn’t respond with the usual venom in his voice.

“Jespa sent me.” He said, sounding vaguely sympathetic.

Jazz stiffened minutely, already knowing where the conversation was headed. It was time. She’d told him she’d let him know if anything came up.

“I understand.” The saboteur answered softly, pausing his ministrations and turning to stare at his reflection in the mirror. “You don’t need to say anything.”

Aster sighed. “No, perhaps not.” He paused, and glanced at his feet before looking up once more. “But Odeon’s been here almost as long as I have. And...he doesn’t deserve what’s happening to him.”

Jazz scoffed, “Do you even know what’s happening to him?”

Those red scarlet optics shone with an intelligence that had gone dormant since the arrival of the guests. “Please, Meister. I’m not as oblivious as you believe. I know something’s going on around here; it’s my job to know everything.”

“Then you know Crosswire’s the mech responsible for everything, don’t you?”

Aster narrowed his optics. “Without solid and tangible proof, I may as well be blaming Unicron for all my misgivings.”

That made Jazz pause. “What?"

A thin shoulder pauldron rose and fell in a shrug. “I’m merely stating that it’s unwise to go blaming mechs and stirring up trouble when you only have your speculations to go off of.” A corner of the mech’s mouth lifted in a mirthless half-smile. “But your current predicament is proof of that, isn’t it?”

Jazz grimaced. “Is it?”

“Relenting against Argyrus is one thing, but you don’t mess with Reverb and his people without suffering some form of consequence.” Aster’s gaze darkened. “And you should know better than to mess with the new arrival.”

Soundwave. Jazz felt his lower lip tremble at the name and he masked it by curling his lip into a sneer. “Why not? He’s just like the rest of them. Murders and thieves, isn’t that what your master called them?”

Aster scoffed. “You have no idea, do you? Soundwave isn’t just some thief or murderer. He was the right-hand man of the Decepticon leader during the war. The things he’s done...you have no idea just how depraved and damaged that mech is.”

Jazz sat on that for a while and he couldn’t help the subtle disbelieving shake his helm gave. He doubted anyone _but_ _him_ actually understood the weight such a phrase held. “You know him pretty well, do you?”

“I know enough,” Aster said slowly, “to know your creation won’t live to emergence if you don’t stop pushing.”

Unhappily, Jazz made his way down the ladder, pausing for a moment once his feet touched the ground to regulate his ventilations. “I didn’t know you cared,” he said, bemused.

“I don’t.” Aster said, as blunt and honest as he ever got. “But I wouldn’t forgive myself if I allowed a mech to throw away an innocent life simply because he forgot his place.”

Jazz wanted to laugh. All of a sudden everyone seemed to care about the bitlet; now that it apparently belonged to the lord of the house and everyone’s attention was on it, one wouldn’t be found dead doing something that would bring it harm. But where was all this devotion orns ago when nobody but him seemed to give a damn? Had everyone known that Argyrus hadn’t been responsible for his state, nobody would spare him a second glance.

And if the truth actually got out on who the bitlet’s sire was...well, Cybertron might just find itself turning on its axis. Reverb would certainly blow a gasket and Jazz was tempted to tell him if for nothing else than to see those faceplates twist into a look of shock and disgust.

But the thought was quickly thrown out the door by the more rationale part of him. As fun as that would be, he wouldn’t risk the bitlet’s safety for some cheap thrills and laughs. The bitlet was his priority. Second only to getting the slag out and back to Iacon. Soundwave’s arrival changed absolutely nothing; the telepath and his minions were nothing more than another bunch of obstacles that he had to get past. He’d done it before in the war several times.

Circumstances aside, he still had his wits and his resourcefulness. And that would be more than enough to get him out; he just had to wait until Soundwave’s attention was elsewhere and he’d be back home.

 

~~~

Demaxx was running.

The struts in her legs creaked with every bound and leap, her senses sharp and audials pricked as she heard the dun of voices and crashing merchandise that told her that her pursuers were still hot on her trail.

The datapad she’d swiped from the vendor was still lodged under her arm, a thick volume she didn’t even know the name of, and though it kept throwing her off balance every so often, she knew that dropping it would stop the pair of Enforcers from catching up with her.

It was hard to lose herself into the crowd that constituted the population of Praxus, for all the bots had smooth glossy finishes that clashed with her dull plating and made her stand out like a black sheep among the masses.

The streets were clean and empty of litter so the best she could do was throw people onto the ground and hope the Enforcers were sentimental enough to make the downed pedestrian’s health and safety their priority. A hard jostle against a femme had her dropping the youngling in her arms and though Demaxx hated the sound of the crying little bot, she knew it was damaged too severely because when she glanced over her shoulder, it was kicking and screaming up one heck of a storm.

Unfortunately for her, that brief distraction caused her to make a wrong turn and she came into an alley that was nothing more than a dead end.

Cursing, Demaxx patted around it, trying to see if there were any seams she could maybe use as footholds but she hadn’t grazed one before the sound of a whirring blaster echoed through the cramped space and a rough voice told her to freeze.

“Put your hands in the air!” It said and Demaxx complied, holding the datapad up right along with her.

“Put the stolen merchandise on the ground.”

The datapad made a dull thump as it landed on the floor, the spine cracking from the impact.

“Dammit, you know that wasn’t what I meant!” The mech said exasperatedly and Demaxx grinned at the wall.

“Sorry, officer.” She said amusedly, not bothering to glance over her shoulder to look at him. “Guess my nerves got the best of me.”

A dry laugh sounded. “Huh. Funny. Now put your hands behind your helm, clasp your fingers and kneel on the ground.”

Rolling her optics, Demaxx obeyed and she heard the sound of footsteps slowly making their way towards her, stopping only when the mech paused to put away his balster. Within moments, a pair of strong hands were grabbing her wrists and a pair of heavy stasis cuffs bound her hands behind her back. They were uncomfortable and each time she tried to move her fingers, they tightened and a strong electrical current went up the length of her arms.

A rough shove against her shoulder had her whirling around to face the mech that’d apprehended her and she narrowed her optics upon seeing his frametype.

A Seeker. But he carried the insignia of the Praxian Enforcers and his silver frame was marred with the official black and white markings of his occupation. His golden optics were narrowed as he took in her appearance, the broken datapad securely in one of his arms.

“You do realize you just stole a datapad about an outdated branch of science, right? It wasn’t even worth half a shanix.”

Demaxx shrugged, lips curling into an easy smile. She liked the way his wings rose and fell as he spoke and those optics of his were way too soft, clashing with the intimidating grimace he was trying to pull off. “Bummer. I was aiming for that one with the red cover that depicted 75 interfacing positions for different frame-type couples.” Her engine gave a small rev. “I liked the ones with the Seekers most of all.”

The mech scoffed. “Yeah, right.” Shaking his helm, he grabbed her arm and lead her out of the alley, both of them emerging to find two other Enforcers and a transport vehicle on standby. A few pedestrians looked on with mild curiosity, some sneering when they caught sight of her non-Praxian features. Demaxx didn’t really mind; she’d had worse.

A silver mech with golden optics and broad doorwings hiked up high on his back approached them, not even bothering to glance at the femme. “Silverwing; I thought I told you to wait for backup.”

The Seeker didn’t cow at the mech’s firm tone. “With all due respect, sir, she wasn’t a threat.” He gave her arm a slight jostle. “She wasn’t armed and the merchandise she stole was non-sensitive. I knew I could catch her and I did.”

“With a few calamities, obviously.”

Demaxx winced slightly as she saw a paramedic checking over the youngling she’d pushed to the ground; the little bot didn’t look injured but he was still sniffling and pawing at his creator’s chest, chirping his pain. He’d live, maybe with a dent or two, though.

“Does it help if I say I’m sorry?” Demaxx asked, turning to look at the Seeker holding her arm.

The mech frowned. “Just be quiet for a bit, yeah?”

Demaxx’s optic ridges rose up for a moment before she huffed and pressed her lips together. She wasn’t listening to him, of course not, she’d just noticed that his wings were fluttering in annoyance and his EM field told that he was moments away from going off on the silver mech in front of them.

A bit of drama was always something she was eager to indulge in.

“Riot, you’re not seriously going to lecture me in front of a detainee, are you?”

Riot said, “Embarrassed, Silverwing?”

“Course I’m not.”

Demaxx could tell from the dip of his wings that he definitely was.

“Then,” Riot said, grabbing a hold of Demaxx’s other arm and all but wrenching her aside with enough force to nearly pull her arm from her socket. “I suppose you won’t mind if I take over from here and order you to go clean up the mess that you allowed to happen.”

Silverwing stared up at the mech with a mixture of annoyance and displeasure but a quick glance at the the other Enforcers loitering in the background had him rolling his optics and nodding in submission. “Fine. Whatever.” He pushed past the silver mech, grumbling about being of equal rank and that he wasn’t going to stand being treated like a youngling.

Demaxx watched him go with an easy smile, amused by the mech. But then the grip on her arm tightened and the smile quickly fell as she turned to regard the large Praxian that was now holding her.

His golden optics were dark and sharp and the smile he carried as he pulled her along and into the transport was nothing more than a flashy show for the troops.

It was no coincidence that he told the other two recruits to attend to other tasks, leaving the two of them alone sitting side by side in the empty back of the vehicle.

She tried to regulate her ventilations, turning her helm so she didn’t have to look at him. Bad enough he was all but pressed against her side, at least she could spare this little dignity.

His fingers twitched on her arm and she froze as she felt the familiar rhythmic tapping on her alloy.

_Why are you here?_

Demaxx huffed but her hands shifted slightly so that one of her pinkies brushed against his thigh.

_Certainly not here for the pleasure of your company. Definitely not because I’m yearning for the hospitality of the Enforcer Headquarters’ prison cells._

Riot’s engine gave a small growl, noticeable only because they were pressed together. His fingers tapped another message.

_Did Reverb send you?_

Demaxx wanted to roll her optics; of course, why else would she willingly have made such a commotion and gotten herself caught by some rookie police officer. Oh well, time to deliver the message.

_Soundwave’s at the estate. Reverb wants you to know that if Nea isn’t taken care of by the next orn, then he’s pulling the plug on your side of the deal._

Riot froze, his fingers gripping her arm so tight that she swore he was going to crush her alloy in his hand. But he caught himself in time, sighing as the transport’s engine whined to life and they finally began to move.

Time seemed to slow down as he thought it over and for a moment, Demaxx was afraid he wouldn’t say anything at all. Riot was many things, but predictable he was not and she wasn’t too keen on being on the end of whatever the ultimatum pushed him into doing.

She was just the fragging messenger, for Primus’ sake.

Riot said nothing as they continued their journey, arriving at the Praxian Enforcer headquarters and making their way through the intricate little corridors until they’d arrived at the more than familiar cubicles that served as the prison cells.

A femme with blue decals walked by and grinned. “Same one, Riot?"

Riot smiled, Demaxx the only one seeming to notice the faux warmth he exuded. “Stole an outdated book on aptosurgery.” He said cheerily. “She seems to be running out of creative ideas.”

Demaxx was ready to retort, a crude curse on the tip of her glossa. But before she could say anything, she felt Riot’s fingers give a final few taps on her arm before he threw her into an empty cell. The words were enough to make her hold her tongue as she took her place on the hard berth, staring at the wall and waiting for her turn to be let out once more.

_Tell Reverb it’s as good as done._


	20. Yours And Mine

_“Live your lie. If I were you I wouldn’t_

_want to live your truth, either.”_

                                                                                      

—Ranata Suzuki

 

The squeak of the temperature knobs reverberated through the large washracks, making the saboteur wince more than the scalding hot solvent landing on his back and seeping into his aching struts and joints. It was quiet and the lights were dim, a testament to the fact that it was the night cycle and definitely not the most ideal time to be having a wash.

But Jazz’s frame was aching and he’d tossed and turned in his berth for joors until he finally decided enough was enough and sought relief the only way he knew how. Squeezing some cleaner into his hands, he began to scrub his torso and the backstruts he could reach, fingertips kneading into the armor and protoform reachable through the seams in an odd form of massage. His frame was steadily expanding to accommodate the growing protoform in his gestation chamber and since his frame had never gone under such an invasive and extensive procedure, it was having difficulty accepting the changes. Cables that were designed for agility and strength refused to give up their flexibility and only caved when the expansion threatened to sever them if they didn’t accommodate. His joints were strong, meant to withstand powerful impacts with as little loss in agility as possible, but even they weren’t used to feeling so much pressure on a daily basis.

Jazz had learned about this part from Jespa and she’d warned him that it would be in his best interest to have someone on hand that’d be willing to offer assistance in the relieving of the pain; preferably someone willing to help him stretch and who’d massage his limbs and murmur encouragements as things got physically more restrictive and painful.

But the saboteur had laughed in the face of such advice because she’d basically described the responsibilities of a bondmate, a conjunx, and Jazz was far away from any bots willing to offer such time-consuming services out of the good of their Sparks. The only bot on the estate who’d do any of those things for him was on his last legs, entire frame almost grey as his Spark strove not to gutter and disappear. Jespa had been stumped and she’d called in a few favors from associates in her home city but chances of anyone answering back in time were slim.

Odeon wasn’t going to make it.

The thought made a lump rise in Jazz’s intakes but stubbornly swallowed it down and continued with his clumsy ministrations, finding little relief from his own pain but discovering that the repetitive motions lulled his mind into focusing on something else. His thoughts were chaotic and confusing but he still forced himself to look through them, sorting everything that’d happened recently into two simple categories: I’m-slagged and It-could-be-worse.

So far, everything was going into the former and Jazz chuckled dryly as it kept on growing and growing but he came upon a revelation that brought a bit of balance to everything.

Far as Jazz understood, Soundwave had no idea who the bitlet’s sire was. And that was good. He still hadn’t figured out how the telepath would react if he came to the realization that it was his and Jazz wasn’t too keen on finding out. His most violent dreams often depicted Soundwave furious and deadly, visor flaring a bright crimson as he rammed his hand into Jazz’s torso and crushed the frail little protoform with his bare hands, monotone voice telling him it was a mistake, that Jazz didn’t deserve it and that things were better this way.

But the tamer versions of his memory influxes held little hope. Soundwave was always cold and distant, not caring about the Spark that shared half of his CNA and the internal blueprints of his lifeforce. Jazz would beg him to react, to at least let him know if the bitlet’s existence made him happy or sad or angry, but that visor and facemask stayed in place and he remained impassive and silent.

Jazz still hadn’t figured out which was worse.

For a while, Jazz had lived in the blissful limbo of carrying without any of the physical repurcussions managing to hit him yet. But life had given him a metaphorical kick in the aft and graced him with every single incommodity that Jespa had told him about. Lethargy, pain in his struts, and an even crazier interfacing drive that had his field flickering faintly with arousal. He’d taken one look in a mirror and seen the slow loss of his lithe frame and very nearly screamed in horror because it was real.

He’d always known it was real but now his frame was showing him the veracity of it all. In several decaorns, there’d be a miniature Jazz running around, chirping and cooing, demanding all of the saboteur’s attention and devotion.  It would grow into a youngling and then it’d would inevitably be a full-framed adult. Maybe it would be a scientist, learning about the universe and the scientific stuff Jazz never really had a knack for, proving to be smarter and better than its carrier. Or perhaps it’d be an instructor, a musician if Jazz played his cards right, maybe even a racer. 

Eventually they’ll fall in love and have bitlets of their own and— 

“What the frag?” Jazz gave his head a terse shake, snapping out of his derailing train of thought. He was already thinking about his bitlet’s bitlets when it still hadn’t even finished gestating. Talk about getting ahead of himself. 

Eventually the amount of cleanser he had left started running low and the spray began to temper down, so Jazz rinsed the suds off his frame, dried himself and left the washracks to head back to the servants’ quarters. To nobody’s surprise, most of the bots were rousing from recharge and Jazz quickly applied his morning polish and sped off to receive the list of his daily duties before he had the opportunity to piss anyone off. He couldn’t run but at the very least he managed a somewhat graceful speedwalk that got him to the lesser dining area in time to see Aster sitting down with a still hot Energon cube. 

The white mech glanced up when Jazz entered and after a moment of scrutiny, offered a small dip of his helm in greeting.

Jazz returned the gesture, even if only for the sake of formality. He made his way to the Energon dispenser and poured himself two cubes, sitting down at the corner of a table that was as far away from where most bots tended to crowd as possible. 

It was an awkward few moments, made even worse when the doors opened once more and Crosswire and a couple of his peers walked in, laughing boisterously and jostling one another as if they were old friends. Those green optics caught sight of Jazz almost immediately and the smile disappeared as quickly as it had spread; the saboteur took a swig of his remaining cube and lowered his gaze, pretending to find something on the table surface extremely fascinating. 

He wanted to drink his final cube and ask Aster for his list of duties but it was still too hot to chug and the saboteur knew drinking it all would only upset his tanks. So he closed his optics behind his visor and continued to drink.

The table jostled slightly as someone sat at it and when Jazz’s optics snapped open, he suppressed a grimace upon seeing who it was. 

“Hello, Meister.” Crosswire said, sharing a knowing glance between him and the mech at his side. Two of the silver mech’s group sat on Jazz’s other side, arms and legs brushing against his and basically boxing him in. 

“Crosswire,” Jazz acknowledged, voice carefully neutral. He took a look at his cube and gauged that he had about six or seven sips left before he could get up and leave. A joor or two if he rushed. 

“I heard Odeon’s being shipped off to some clinic in Crystal City.” 

That made Jazz freeze and he slowly lifted his gaze up to stare into those preening grinning faceplates. “What?” He asked, truly confused. Jespa hadn’t told him anything about a relocation. She said there wasn’t hope! 

Sensing the grey mech’s distress, Crosswire shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I heard Reverb talking about how there’s this new clinic that opened up that deals with unknown pathogens. He wants to send Ode there to make sure he gets the proper treatment and hopefully makes a speedy recovery.” He shook his helm mournfully. “We all miss him.” 

A murmur of agreement rippled through his harem and Jazz resisted the urge to throw the cube of Energon into his face and let everyone know that Odeon wouldn’t be in that situation if Crosswire hadn’t poisoned his Energon. The idiot had been aiming for Jazz but he was too stupid to even plan a decent murder attempt and was now trying to play everything off as an accident.

Why else would he be so violently against Jazz if not for that? It took anyone with a decent processor to put the pieces together. 

Suddenly feeling nauseous, Jazz knew he wasn’t going to be able to finish his cube without risking purging so he stood up, grabbed it and made his way to the disposal. Ignoring everyone else, he came next to Aster and politely asked for his schedule. 

The white mech looked up at him, red optics narrowed. But he says nothing as he hands over the datapad, which Jazz takes and reads only once he’s safely outside the servants’ mess hall. It takes all of Jazz’s self-control not to groan out loud when he realizes that he has an entirely booked orn, with the same crazy duties that smelled of Reverb’s extended punishment. 

He had two breaks; one after he finished polishing the stairs and one just before his recharging period. The bulk of the day was going to be all work with no periods of rest in between. Fragging great. Jazz wished he’d tried coming in as something other than a servant; he hated cleaning. 

But Jazz wasn’t allowed to complain and at the very least he could force his mind into thinking that all this work was in place of the stretches and exercise that he needed to help ease his frame’s transition. With that in mind, he made his way through the halls with the bucket, polish and mesh cloths in hand and arrived at the foot of the various flights of stairs he’d be attending to. For the first time since he’d arrived, it dawned on him how stupid having two separate flights heading to the same floor really was. It was entirely illogical and wasn’t even that aesthetically pleasing. 

Just another example of the idiots residing under the roof of the estate. 

Sighing, he knelt down in front of the bottom step and slapped the polish onto the shiny metal before grabbing a cloth to begin his task.

Now, the stair hall was very rarely used. Most bots tended to loiter on the ground floor since the top one only housed recharging chambers and the random drawing rooms nobody really seemed to go into. But for some reason, everyone wanted to use the stairs that orn. And so they did. 

They didn’t ask for permission or even take him into consideration and several times Jazz was halfway up the first flight when some idiot would meander down and ruin all the good work he did on half of the steps. Once or twice, a mech would slip and they’d utter a string of curses that would have made any lesser bot cow in shame. But their blunder was brought about by their own stupidity so Jazz bowed his head and struggled not to go off on them. 

And then he’d continue with his work. Eventually he got into a rhythm and he pulled up an Earth tune he kept in his memory core and replayed it inside his helm, finding the music to be soothing and helping him focus.

He was on the second to last step at the top when he heard the telltale sound of someone marching their heavy pedes up the stairs, one by one, lingering at each one as if they knew the steps were newly polished and it was their job to make sure all of the servant’s work was undone. Jazz waited, a growl rumbling in his throat and when he heard them halt two steps beneath him, he carefully rose to his own feet and turned around to finally give this unfortunate mech a piece of his mind.

But his voice died as soon as he saw who it was and he snapped his lips shut, dentae grounding against each other.

Soundwave was a statue of impassiveness, the only sign of life being his flaming red visor.

“You messed up my work.” Jazz said icily, gesturing to the uneven glimmer that indicated where the mech had placed his feet. Ignoring the unease curdling in his vitals, he proceeded to add. “You have any idea how much fragging work that took? How much time?”

The blue host mech glanced back, flinching slightly as if finally noticing his own mistake. “Apologies.” He said but it didn’t sound sincere. If anything, he sounded distracted.

Sensing he was keeping Soundwave from something, Jazz stepped aside and turned his back on him, continuing with his own chores. “Go on, then.” He hissed, hating the prickling sensation that was felt near the corner of his optics. “Don’t want to keep your buddies waiting.”

Silence met the sabotuer’s words and for a moment, he was concerned. Hand placing itself over his ventrum, he stood up once more and glared at the mech with all he was worth. Neither of them missed how that red visor went down to Jazz’s lower torso before snapping back up to his face.

“Meeting, requested.” The words were clipped and Jazz found himself at a momentary loss.

“What?”

Soundwave paused. “Soundwave, requests an audience with Meister. Tonight.”

Jazz simply stared at the mech for a couple nanokliks before blinking stupidly and scoffing. “What’s this? Soundwave, asking for a lowly servant’s attentions?” He couldn’t resist prodding at the old wounds lingering between them. “What is it that you’d want, I wonder? My company? Or,” his voice went down an octave, low and dangerous. “Perhaps something a little more intimate?” 

The implications made Soundwave take a measured step back and he was quick to shake his head. “Negative. Discourse, the only thing that Soundwave seeks.” 

The saboteur narrowed his optics. “You wanna talk?” 

“Affirmative.” 

Jazz pretended to ponder the mech’s solicitation, finger tapping against his lower lip. “Hmm. Lemme see. I think I can fit you in somewhere in my busy schedule. I’ll just ask Reverb that I’m not gonna do his stupid punishments and take you out for a drink, yeah? You pay because I only got a couple shanix to my name; the pay here is horrible.” 

Soundwave’s engine gave the tiniest rumble of indignation. “Sarcasm, not appreciated and unnecessary.” He glanced around, making sure noone was in the vicinity. “Query: when is Jazz’s next break?” 

“I don’t got one,” Jazz lied smoothly. “Not sure if you heard me correctly but I’m being punished. I don’t get time off.” 

That made the telepath jerk his helm back in surprise. For a moment, Jazz felt his coiled EM field flare slightly, teeking the edges of his just enough to get a whiff of the exhaustion that loitered around the edges. In the same stead, Jazz felt Soundwave’s confusion at the situation and the uncertainty made his frown slightly in apprehension. 

It was odd, seeing the normally stoic Soundwave look so offput. He always had an answer for everything and even when he didn’t, he knew how to divert conversations to something less damning. But the mech standing before the saboteur was anything but suave; it was almost like watching a newly built youngling working up the nerve to ask someone they liked out to play. Only in this scenario, the youngling was an old war veteran and the bot he was asking hated him with every fiber of his being.

“My quarters.” Soundwave said finally, resolution in his voice. “When Jazz’s duties are finalized, meet me there.”

“No.” Jazz hissed lowly. “ _I_ don’t want to speak to _you_. We have nothing to talk about.” That was a lie but Jazz wasn’t keen on putting himself in such a vulnerable position with the mech. He wasn’t Jazz’s nemesis at the moment but he wasn’t an ally either, his mere presence at the estate a testament to the fact. 

Soundwave sighed. “Negative. Much to discuss.” He paused and gestured at Jazz’s torso with a jerk of his chin. “Soundwave, aware of the conditions that lead to Jazz’s carrying state.” The anger and contempt in his voice was enough to send alarm bells ringing in Jazz’s head. 

Jazz’s hands moved of their own accord. One minute they’d stood staring at each other in tense silence and then Soundwave found himself reeling back as a dirty polishing cloth was hitting him smackdab in his face. The buckets in Jazz’s hands clattered as he dropped them in his haste to get to the stop step, nearly slipping on his own work. Once he found himself on stable footing, the saboteur finally willed himself to stare down at the blue host mech.  

He pointed a finger at him, growling. “You don’t know anything.” 

Soundwave had taken off the cloth from his face, his fingers wiping at the residue that remained until he could at least see clearly through the monochromatic streaks lining his visor. “Negative. Soundwave, knows everything.” 

Jazz felt like the room was spinning. This wasn’t real; he’d been so careful! He’d never told anyone, not even Ratchet, and now the one person he didn’t want knowing knew it all. 

It was over. Escape was futile; he had no provisions and he was too far along to properly make his way out of the estate walls without stopping to rest every damn five kliks. And he knew, without a doubt that if he tried to avoid Soundwave now, the bastard would only find ways to look for him. 

And the last thing Jazz wanted was to draw unwanted attention on himself. The last thing he needed was Rethelia and that brother of hers snooping around wondering why the mighty Soundwave was so interested in a lowly insignificant servant such as himself. Or worse, Soundwave might just dare to tell on him. For real. 

There was only one thing he had left to do. 

His frame was shaking and his hands refused to relax, the tips digging into his palms as they curled into fists at his side. But his voice was calm and clear as he spoke.

“Okay.” 

Soundwave noticed the defeat in his tone but chose not to acknowledge it. He muttered the directions to the room he was staying in and made his way up the stairs, intentionally keeping his distance. The dirty cloth Jazz had thrown at him was gently placed into one of the buckets, the wet material landing at the bottom with a loud plop. Without another word, the telepath made his way up, down a hall, disappeared around a corner and Jazz was left in quiet loss; the stairs were a mess and he knew Aster was moments away from coming to check on his progress but the saboteur didn’t care.

All he could focus on was the sound of his rapidly beating Spark and the sensation of the tiny form in his gestation chamber wriggling in discomfort.

~~~

The sound of a creaking metal was the thing that snapped Demaxx out of recharge and her frame instinctively reacted, making it so that when she was finally lucid, she was in a battle stance ready to take out whoever had been stupid enough to wake her. 

Silver wings with black decals were raised in surprise and those familiar golden optics narrowed slightly in disbelief. “Calm down,” he admonished, raising a hand and patting the air. “It’s just me.” 

Demaxx huffed, straightening up. “You say that like it’s a good thing.” 

“It is,” Silverwing said, surprised by her words. “Enforcers exist to uphold the laws and protect those incapable of protecting themselves.” He came towards her and gently grabbed her arm, firmly but gentler than he had when he’d arrested her on the street. Without saying anything, he led her out of her cell and began to careen her towards what looked suspiciously like the interrogation suite.

Unease prickled at her plating and a ball of fear sprouted in her belly, intensifying when he opened a door and led her into a tiny room with two simple chairs and a table bolted in the center. The white walls and humming fluroscent lights above her wre suddenly too bright and it was only her sense of pride that kept her from showcasing just how claustrophobic she was feeling. 

This wasn’t right.

Riot was the one that was going to process her release; he always did, claiming her small crimes were too insignificant to document or waste resources on before letting her go free. But this time the mech wasn’t here and they were inside a fragging interrogation room. 

Oh gods, did they know? 

Were they going to torture her? Drill her for information about the syndicate? Because that’s what it was; in the eyes of all Cybertron, Reverb and her comrades were nothing more than criminals. It’s how revolutionaries were always seen, things to be destroyed and silenced in the face of entropy and false stability. 

Well, she wasn’t going to crack. Nobody was going to make her talk. She kept repeating those two things in her head like a mantra, stoically silent and complacent as Silverwing herded her into a chair. He took her shackles off (big mistake) and proceeded to make his way to the other chair, his back facing the only exit in the room.

Demaxx’s sparkbeat picked up, her pulse pounding in her audials. She curled her fingers into fists on top of the table, frame tense as she prepared for whatever came next. 

Silverwing placed a datapad down in front of him, the sharp sound making her flinch and he let out a heavy sigh. 

“You want anything?” He asked, not looking up at her. “Energon? Coolant?” 

Demaxx frowned. “What?” 

Silverwing glanced up from the datapad he’d been scrolling through, newly subspaced stylus flickering in between his thumb and forefinger. “Refreshment,” he clarified. “It’s gonna be a while.” 

The silver femme merely gaped, confused. 

For a moment, Silverwing’s expression was a replica of her own but it quickly morphed into an amused smile and he scoffed gently. “Relax,” he said. “I’m not going to interrogate you. This is just paperwork we have to do here and then you’re free to go.” He paused. “Unless you’re eager on coming back here with that datapad on interfacing positions.” 

It took Demaxx a moment to realize that he’d made a joke but by the time she got it, Silverwing had moved on and was asking her basic questions about herself. 

“Designation?”

“Demaxx.” 

“Occupation?” 

“Unemployed.” 

Silverwing’s optic ridges furrowed slightly as he wrote that in. “Home city-state?” 

Demaxx turned her helm to one side, staring at one of the blank walls. “None.”

That made Silverwing pause and he glanced up to stare at her worriedly. “You don’t have a place to stay?” 

She shook her head. “I’m a nomad,” she said quickly, hating the look of pity on his face. “I travel around doing odd jobs.” Before he could ask why she’d been caught stealing in the first place, she added, “I don’t always get hired and I fall on hard times. And as you can see, I don’t make the best of choices.” It was as close to the truth as she could get to without directly revealing her current ties. But despite what the Seeker thought, she wasn’t unhappy. For the first time since the war ended, she had hope. 

The Seeker stared at her long and hard for a moment then glanced down to skim the rest of the contents of his datapad. Something must’ve rubbed him the wrong way because he sighed, turned it off and pushed it to the side. 

“What are you doing?” She said, distrusting. 

Silverwing lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Talking.” 

Oh gods, that torture interrogation was starting to sound so much better. “I thought you were discharging me.” 

“I am,” Silverwing said, a different smile lighting up his features. It’s slightly playful, definitely cocky and it makes Demaxx want to roll her optics in exasperation. She could tell this bot wasn’t a fresh adult-frame but the energy he was exuding definitely made him seem younger than he appeared.

Now she understood why Riot and everyone found it almost instinctive to admonish him; yelling his name like an angry creator down the hall about why he left the Energon dispenser empty or why the paperwork he’d been ordered to turn in at the end of the workorn wasn’t where it was supposed to be.

His words from when he’d picked her up from the cell echoed in her mind and she couldn’t help but feel sympathetic. He was so painstakingly naïve. 

“You don’t want to talk to me,” she said softly, allowing the corner of her mouth to rise in a half-smile. “I’m not much of a conversationalist.” 

Silverwing grinned. “Neither am I. But as much as I’d love to talk to you about your hopes and dreams, I’m not necessarily aiming for that kind of chitchat.” 

Demaxx instinctively tensed. “Oh?” 

“You ever thought about joining a police force?”

That certainly hadn’t been what she’d been expecting and she was sure her expression relayed that quite vividly. Blinking stupidly, she managed to regain her bearings and shook her head. “Never. I don’t really find uptight rules and restrictions to be too much fun. It was a pain in the aft during the war, I can only imagine what it’s like in peacetime.”

Silverwing’s wings rose in surprise. “You fought in the war?” 

“I was an Autobot,” Demaxx said, feeling wary because that in itself was already too much information. The last thing she wanted was for this mech to go digging up her personal records and finding out things she’d hoped would stay buried for a good long while. 

“Even better.” Silverwing said, bypassing her affiliation without so much as giving it a second thought. “You have military training and a basic understanding of most protocols that translate directly into civil security.” 

Raising an optic ridge, Demaxx asked. “Killing others in a desperate attempt to survive counts towards keeping citizens safe?” 

Silverwing replied, “Do you suffer from PTSD or any other kind of psychiatric or physical disorders?” 

“Not necessarily.” The femme frowned. “But why the interest? I’m just a petty criminal.” 

That soft smile of his was back. “Well, it’s part of the new inclusion initiative our commissioner’s been striving to implement into all Enforcer headquarters across the planet. He says it’d be optimal if it was used in every workplace and occupation but for now, limiting it to civil security sectors offers a control group that lets those wary of the initiative see it in action.” He pointed at himself. “The initiative’s how I got to be a licensed Enforcer here in Praxus. As a Seeker, bots expected me to settle in New Vosian and take up flying or science, y’know things that Seekers are known for.” He shook his head, gold optics softening. “My creators wanted me to have a trine. Even before the war began and we traveled offworld, they kept on telling me that one day I’d find the two bots that’d complete me. But of course, I didn’t have the same aspirations that they did so here I am.” 

Demaxx watched in bemusement as he spread his arms, wings twitching mirthfully before he settled back into that professional pose he’d adopted when they first sat down. The transition was comical and she couldn’t stop the smile that’d sprouted on her lips. 

He returned it full force. “Cybertron’s changing,” Silverwing said. “For the better. It’s not perfect and some bots are still suffering but it all takes time, y’know? And as much as I’d love to go out there and try to make a difference and automatically make everything good, there’s only so much we can do. So, we start with just one bot. One bot we save and in turn they do the same until it spreads to every single corner of Cybertron. That’s the only way change can truly come about.” 

“That sounds...incredibly naïve.” 

Silverwing’s wings drooped. “It’s not.”

“It is,” Demaxx said, smile falling and voice taking a harsher tone. “All this slag about everyone loving everyone and helping and making change...that’s not going to help anyone. Because that takes into assumption that every single bot is good and that’s not true.” Spark churning painfully in her chest, she paused, catching her ventilations before continuing. “Nobot is good. Not unless there’s something they’re going to get out of it.”

A silence passed between them, heavy and dark, but it was broken by the Seeker’s gentle huff. “Not to mince words...but that sounds incredibly pessimistic.”

“It’s realistic,” Demaxx said, crossing her arms over her chest. “And maybe you’re too stupid to realize it now but there will come a time when the world is going to stomp you into the ground and no one will be there to pick you back up. And then, only then, will you realize that I was right. But by then it’ll be far too late.”

She glanced down at the table, unable to bear looking into those golden depths that were no doubt brimming with sadness and pity. For a moment, the room shifted and she was back at that podium, seeing nothing but hearing the taciturn voice of Prowl condemning her fallen comrades’ lives in vain in favor of keeping a commander whose war record proved to be more important than his disregard for other bots’ lives. The anger, the despair and the pain was gnawing at her once more and she forced it back down with a steel rod, snapping the lid back onto the small container she kept those memories hidden inside her head.

She wanted to go back to Uraya.

She didn’t want to be here, relieving old memories and hearing the idealistic dreams of a mech who knew nothing of war, who hadn’t seen bots turn to hate and violence when they had nothing else left to fight for. Perhaps the war was over but those base emotions resided in every single mech and the only difference was that the death happened in silence.

She wanted to be watching and laughing at those senatorial debates that were broadcasted on the vidscreens, Rencium beside her as they stuffed their faces full of Energon goodies and drank high grade.

Demaxx wanted to go back to where everyone knew the world wasn’t black and white.

“Can I please go?” She asked, glancing up to stare into those warm golden depths. “Please.”

Silverwing hesitated. “But you said you don’t have anywhere to go...”

She smiled softly at that, endeared. “Don’t you know? A roof over your head isn’t what some people are striving for. Sometimes, a person is home. People are my home and I have various waiting for me to come back.”

The mech can’t argue with that, he wants to, desperately and she can see it in his optics. But he seemed to understand that their viewpoints couldn’t be settled over the course of a single discourse. Naïve he may be, but stupid he was not.

“Fine.” Silverwing said. “But here.” He whipped something out of his subspace and handed it to her; when she took it in her grasp, she noticed that it was a small yellow holocard. It had his name, his rank and his personal comm inscribed in neat little glyphs. On the back, she noticed a small picture of him and she wondered why she was so glad to see that he was smiling that familiar smile in it. 

“What’s this?” She asked, wanting to hear him say exactly what the card meant.

“Well,” he explained. “If life really is as unpredictable as you say, then maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have someone waiting on the sidelines.”

She scoffed. “Are you claiming to be my savior?”

“A friend,” Silverwing corrected.

“Why?”

That smile of his was almost as cheeky as his words. “Don’t you know? Sometimes complete strangers meet and like each other enough to be friends.” He shrugged. “I know you like me...and I have to say, you’ve grown on me.”

Demaxx didn’t know what to say. So, she simply dipped her helm. “Thank you.”

~~~ 

Jazz let out a sigh as he settled down against the wall in the empty hallway, soiled berth sheets rolled up under his arm and helm resting against the cool metal behind him as he struggled to vent out the hot air his physical activity had accumulated in his frame. Changing the guest’s sheets was something he despised but he’d learned how to disassociate himself from their messes and used the opportunity to snoop among their stuff if they weren’t there to keep an optic on him. Unfortunately for him, this orn didn’t bring up anything worthwhile. 

All he knew was that Tankor was secretly into minibot porn, a femme named Rencium was head over heels for Makeshift and that Makeshift slept on a chair in one of the mansion’s many verandas. 

Nothing that told him how to stop the end of society, regrettably.  

When he finally managed to place the sheets in the pile designated for washing in the basement, he subspaced the datapad and looked to see what was next. He visibly deflated upon noticing that he’d reached the end of his long list and he’d finally reached that infernal break that preceded the end of his workorn. 

He remembered Soundwave’s confrontation and the confirmation of all of his worst fears spoken in just a few words. The dread came back, making a lump rise in his throat and he forced himself to relax.

Soundwave just wanted to talk. Which meant, that he wasn’t going to kill him. It would be so much more convenient to get one of his little heathens to do it and certainly more creative ways than in the comfort of his own berth chambers. A trip in the washracks, a slit throat as he slept in his bed in the servants’ quarters, maybe some tainted Energon... 

Jazz shook his helm, the influx of unpleasant memories making his plating crawl. No, he couldn’t think of that. He needed to make sure he didn’t crumble under Soundwave’s gaze and let the telepath know that he was raising this creation on his own and that, regardless of it’s conception, it was his. And only his. 

He shoved all speculations aside, knowing it wouldn’t do any good if he arrived a paranoid gibbering mess, and focused on making his way to the guestroom Soundwave had specified. It wasn’t in the usual guest wing and for a moment, Jazz found himself wandering around in circles, confused. 

But once he pulled up the map he’d drawn up to facilitate his travel in the rather large estate, he realized that it was directly above the servants’ quarters. They were modest accomodations, usually reserved for bots that were not friends and definitely not someone the lords were aiming to woo. 

It was just simple furnishing, simple abstract paintings on the walls and tiny little balconies that really didn’t offer much of a view. 

Jazz paused once he found himself in front of the designated door, glancing around himself to stare at the shadowy hallways that were illuminated only by the faux stars outside and the dim orange glow of the occasional lamps. 

A big part of him wanted to say screw it and make a run for it. But he reminded himself that he’d lost and it was better to get things over with here and now. He still had his knife in his subspace and if push came to shove...he’d do whatever it took to protect himself and his bitlet.

Taking a deep breath, Jazz raised a hand and knocked three times. 

He didn’t have to wait long; in less than a nanoklik, the door was pulled open and Soundwave loomed in the doorway, red visor glowing a stark crimson and his face obscured by that blasted facemask. 

“Jazz.” He greeted and Jazz told himself that the relief in that monotone voice was nothing more than a figment of his imagination. 

“Hey,” Jazz said in return, unable to come up with any sarcastic quips or innuendos to spout off. He glanced around and shrugged slightly. “You gonna let me in?” 

Soundwave stepped aside and Jazz quickly slipped inside, careful not to keep his back to the telepath for longer than was necessary. Even if he couldn’t detect any malintent on the host mech’s behalf and his body language wasn’t offensive, it never hurt to be careful. 

The room was small for the ones Jazz was used to seeing with only a berth, a couple drawers, a desk and a larger recliner decorating the drearily colored square enclosure. The doors to the balcony were open and the wind caused the silky curtains to sway, casting eerie shimmering shadows on the floor where the faux starlight touched it. The lights were off and Jazz knew that was completely intentional. The berth was cleanly made, no creases in the fabric to indicate that it’d been slept in. 

Soundwave had been waiting for him. 

“I don’t have a lot of time,” Jazz said coldly, arms crossed over his chest as he took a peek through the open doors leading to the balcony. Glancing back, he noticed Soundwave was standing still as a statue in front of the bed, directly opposite the saboteur.

Jazz smiled when the telepath didn’t respond, finding his silence oddly satisfying. It seemed, that for the first time in a long while, Soundwave was at a loss for words.

Normally, the saboteur would be preening at having been able to pull off such a feat but since that meant that it was up to him to move the conversation along, it only served to annoy him. Rolling his optics, Jazz glanced at one of the bland walls, deliberately avoiding optic contact. 

“So, I’m here.” Jazz said with a shrug. “Speak.” 

Soundwave was silent. 

For the first time since the joint mission to Uraya, Jazz found himself missing Soundwave’s little cassettes. At least they knew how to break an awkward silence; no doubt they were lingering in the shadows, watching and observing, staying out of the way at their host mech’s orders. 

“Do you mind if I sit?” He asked rhetorically, heading for the small recliner next to the open window. It was soft and plush and he all but sank into it as he sat down. An involuntary purr was emitted from his frame as he finally sank into the comfort he’d been seeking since the orn had begun. “I’m slagging tired and my back struts are killing me.” 

“Pain, a common side effect of carrier mechs.” Soundwave said coldly and Jazz whipped his helm around to stare at him. 

His blue visor flashed for a moment before dimming in acknowledgement. “So, you know,” he said, crossing his arms over his not so flat chassis. “That’s just great.” 

“Negative,” that monotone was being incredibly adept at relaying the telepath’s growing anger; hands curled into fists, Soundwave jabbed a finger at the saboteur. “Situation, is not ‘great’. Jazz’s position as undercover operative, compromised.” He paused, visibly shaking. “Jazz’s life...compromised.” 

That made the saboteur hiss scornfully and he struggled to lean forward, one hand eventually planting itself on his knee while the other shook an angry finger right back at the telepath. “Don’t you fragging decide what’s good for me and what’s not, you fragger. This was _my_ decision. I _chose_ this. This bitlet is going to be born because I _want_ it to be. Nobody forced me into it and nobody but me will force me out of it.”

Soundwave let out a scoff, shaking his helm. He looked away from Jazz for a long while, hands clenching and unclenching as he struggled to bring his emotions under control; the saboteur watched quietly, tense and ready to respond to whatever Soundwave decided to do. If he yelled, Jazz would yell right on back. And if Soundwave decided that enough was enough...well, Jazz had no qualms about killing bots. 

Soundwave would end up being just another tic on his record. 

To his surprise, the host mech managed to calm himself down and he sat himself on the edge of the berth, elbows on his knees and head held tightly in his hands.

The position was vulnerable, displaying so many emotions that it was difficult for Jazz to discern exactly what the telepath was feeling and he hated the tiny flutter that his Spark made, reminding him of that sliver of himself that reached out towards the mech and hoped for something that was no longer there. Jazz pursed his lips and lowered his gaze, focusing on his clasped hands in his lap. The paint had chipped away on the edges, a testament to the work he’d been doing and the lack of resources he’d access to since he began this operation.

Not only had he been terrible at keeping up communication; he’d been horrible at keeping himself in decent presentation as well.

“Query: why has Jazz not gotten rid of the newspark?” The question posed is brief and poignant, a perfect echo of the one the saboteur had been asking himself every time he’d woken up in pain and had to care for his frame as best he could on his own. He still hadn’t found the right answer to it but at this point in time, he really couldn’t bring himself to find out. Regardless of what truth he had yet to find, the bitlet was tied to him and Jazz couldn’t imagine himself severing that bond. 

“It’s my choice.” Jazz said again, glancing up to stare into that red optical band. “I wanted it.”

“Jazz, claimed to be not ready for a sparkbond.” Soundwave said, reminding Jazz of the secrets that had been whispered back and forth between them so many eons ago under the guise of trust and affection. “Creations, a byproduct of bonds. Of relationships. No logic seen in the desire to want to keep a creation.”

The saboteur scoffed, contempt lining every single line on his frame. “My choice.” Jazz echoed, feeling like he was repeating himself again and talking to a wall. “Mine.”

Something inside Soundwave snapped and his engine gave an audible growl. “Creation, a byproduct of rape.” He hissed, faceplate snapping back to reveal those smooth faceplates Jazz had once traced for joors with his lips and glossa. Those smooth lips were pulled back into the beginning of a snarl, his dentae bared. “Creation, belongs to Argyrus.”

There was that metallic tinge dancing across Jazz’s glossa once more and for the first time, it tasted sweet. Because although Soundwave’s anger was stemming from various places, such as his contempt for way the newspark was created and his disbelief at Jazz’s decision, one in particular seemed to slowly overpower all the others:

Covetousness.

Soundwave was jealous.

But it wasn’t the kind you’d feel from a lover seeing you flirt with another mech. It was the kind Jazz had felt during their joint mission in Uraya; it was bitter, domineering, like a mech seeing someone hold something they knew didn’t belong to them but their greed made them feel like they possessed it all the same.

It made Jazz tanks roll and he grimaced as the sweet taste soured. “What does it matter to you?” He whispered harshly, voice trailing off into static. 

“Argyrus, known offender. Greedy, malicious and incompetent.” Soundwave retorted. “Knowing this, Jazz would willingly have his creation?”

The desire to scream in affirmation was strong within the saboteur; he wanted to say yes, that he was having that monster’s creation because he wanted to and that there was nothing Soundwave could do about it. But doing so would get them nowhere. For too long, the truth had gone unspoken and Jazz understood that the time of reckoning had finally been thrust unwillingly upon him. Soundwave, for all his faults and misgivings, deserved to know the truth. If for nothing else than the fact that it was partially his fault Jazz was in this predicament. He’d been the one who’d stuck his spike in, who’d consented to the sparkbond and thrust everything he had into that single merge they’d shared all those quartexes ago. It was Soundwave’s gentle words that soothed Jazz’s misgivings, driving away the physical and emotional pain and replacing it with something warm and different. Soundwave’s hand had held his when memory influxes had become too painful, when the high grade couldn’t numb the pain anymore and no screaming alleviated the darkness clawing at Jazz’s insides.

It was Soundwave that had made Jazz believe, if only for just a moment, that someone could love him without losing bits and pieces of themselves in the process.

Jazz felt the wetness beneath his visor far too late and when he finally noticed, the coolant tears had begun to flow and no matter how quickly he tried to wipe them away, they just kept on coming back and staining his cheeks with that ugly teal color.

When Jazz had stepped into the room, he’d expected to be drilled about his job as an undercover operative. To be interrogated and questioned as to why he was here and what he was planning on doing in the first place. He’d expected to do the same and figure out why Soundwave found himself welcomed in a den full of thieves and murderers aiming to topple what he’d fought to establish so many vorns ago.

But he hadn’t wanted this. To be reminded of everything he’d hoped for and everything that had been lost.

Jazz grimaced, rising to his feet and coming to a halt in front of Soundwave. “You don’t have the right to tell me anything,” he said, voice unnervingly soft.

Soundwave grimaced, “You can fight. You are not helpless. Yet, you let some incompetent mech get you into his berth.” He flinched as Jazz stepped closer, hands falling to rest on the berth and curling into the fabric.

Jazz scoffed, “You’re right, I did but it wasn’t because I was weak.” He paused, scowling. “It was because I was stupid.” He placed his servo over his ventrum, the action a familiar comfort that automatically had him smiling. “But it wasn’t who you think it was.”

Soundwave whipped around to stare at him, visor flashing as he detected Jazz’s EM field unfurling and reaching towards his. “What?”

A calm presence invades his processor and then it was the blue mech stumbling away, optics wide and monotone voice stuttering as he fell off the bed and onto his aft with a resounding clang.

“Impossible,” Soundwave said as he caught the data, shaking his helm. And he kept repeating the word, like a mantra or a prayer. But the timetables and math ran through his helm, and he cursed, rising again only to fall back onto the berth with a ragged extent of disbelief. 

“Host mechs cannot spark.” He murmured, more to himself than Jazz. “Impossible...”

Jazz squeezed in between the mech’s knees, visor shining blue in the dim light. Slowly, he gathered one of Soundwave’s hands in the both of his, marveling their weight and feel and a small part of him remembered how they felt when they caressed him and held him safely. But he shook those memories off and placed that blue hand over his ventrum, where the unmistakable vibration of a forming new life could be felt.

The bitlet was still for a moment, hesitating and then it gave a small jump of surprise. Before Jazz could think twice, a wave of pure joy filtered through the unspoken bond tethering creation and carrier and Jazz reveled in the feeling of his unborn spark’s newly discovered emotions. He’d been hearing little pulses, echoes when he was alone but he never once thought that the bitlet was capable of comprehending outside stimuli, much less respond to it. But today was a day full of surprises and Jazz closed his optics, losing himself in the moment.

Soundwave stuttered again but his visor was focused on his hand, optics no doubt wide in aghast behind that red optical band of his.

“This bitlet is yours,” Jazz whispered, feeling so much lighter as each words left his mouth. “I’ve been with no-one else after you. My Spark’s been bared to only two bots in my life, and you’re the last one who ever touched it.” He reached up to cup Soundwave’s face, a small part of him mocking him for the display that was a farce display of intimacy long extinguished between them. His hands were gentle as he righted the mech’s face, staring at him intently. Soundwave still seemed far off, lost under the weight of the revelations but his hand remained over Jazz’s ventrum, warm and strong and feeling. 

“Where did you go?”

Soundwave’s hand jumped a bit and he let out something like a strangled gasp, retreating it as if the plating burned his palm. Jazz held on regardless, forcing the blue mech to look at him. 

“Jazz.” The telepath said, almost savoring the name on his glossa. “Confusing...”

The dark grey mech smiled, “I’ve always been that way, babe. End of the war doesn’t mean the end of my reputation." 

For a moment, the two of them sat in silence. Soundwave stared down at the saboteur, who stared right back, visors dim and touching frames humming contently. The small bitlet’s side of the bond he shared with Jazz was buzzing in contentment, finally happy to have the wavelength of their other creator in the vicinity. They liked Odeon but he was too soft, unable to keep up. This bot was different, strong and gentle, matching that wavelength they were missing down to the last decibel. 

But before they could even reach out, the warmth disappeared and Jazz and Soundwave found themselves on opposite sides of the room. Jazz was sitting in the recliner in the corner of the room, arms crossed over his chassis and lips pursed into a thin fine line. 

Soundwave stiffened, the action not unexpected but still unwelcome.

“What are you doing here?’ Jazz said, moving the conversation in a direction that held equal if not more importance than the previous revelation. “I thought you were in Tarn.”

“I was,” Soundwave replied, internally wincing at the mention of the city that was the basis of their dissension, still sounding dazed from the shock he’d received just nanokliks ago. Everything was moving so fast... “A situation…arose.”

Jazz asked, “Heard about my death? Came back to see if the job was really done, yeah?”

The telepath shifted uncomfortably, the thought of bringing harm upon the saboteur suddenly making all of his coding go haywire. “Negative.”

Grinning dangerously, Jazz uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, lips pursed into a smirk. “What was it then? Don’t tell me it’s cause you missed me, _babe_.”

A hiss sounded from the corner and Jazz’s smirk faltered before morphing into a face splitting grin. Blue visor brightened as it turned to face a dark corner. 

“Here, kitty, kitty—!”

“Shut up,” Ravage hissed, slinking out of the shadows, the dim lighting dancing off her ebony plating. Those ruby optics glimmered with seething rage and Jazz chuckled, nostalgia hitting him like a runaway convoy. He could still see the tiny imprint of a healing dent on the side of her helm.

Soundwave grimaced, “Ravage: desist.” The cybercat narrowed her optics at him and lashed her tail rebelliously.

“First of all, let me make something very clear. _This._ Was a bad idea. You two aren’t even supposed to be talking. Do you have any notion of how many things can go wrong?”

Soundwave opened his mouth to respond but Jazz was the one who spoke first. “You gonna get in the way of expecting creators, Rav? Besides, your host mech? He’s the one who cornered me and threatened me into coming here.”

The cybercat let out something akin to a cat’s cough, a sound that normally would make mechs cringe but both bots knew it to be her version of a laugh.

“Please. Nobody forces your aft to do anything.” Her optics narrowed into slits, helm whipping back and forth between each other. “You don’t get the luxury of joking about this. Creator protocols have activated in both of you, I can smell it from here.”

Jazz’s grin dropped immediately, visor dimming. Soundwave noted the change in attitude and fixed his attention on the saboteur, frowning. “Jazz?”

“Shut up.”

Ravage hissed, “No. If any of us are going to survive this, you need to tap into your common sense. Keep your spikes in your housings, too, if you don’t mind.” Her focus went to the saboteur, displaying a leadership poise the dark grey mech couldn’t imagine the feline possessing. In any other situation it would’ve been impressive. “Jazz, you had the chance to terminate and you didn’t so you are willingly a part of this whole situation. Whatever happens, you can’t afford to push us away. If you want you and your creation to see this whole thing through, you have to listen to Soundwave. ”

“You think I wanted to be a carrier?” Jazz seethed, visor bright white. “And who the fuck gave you permission to order me around? Either of you? If you think I’m going to sit here and follow orders just because I’m carrying your host mech’s spawn, then you can kiss my--!”

Jazz didn’t get to finish his sentence. 

A sharp knock sounded at the door, forcing all three of them to freeze. They waited, hoping whoever it was would simply get the message and go away. But they knocked again, more insistent and Jazz’s sparkbeat sped up when he saw Ravage’s nose twitch and her hackles rose in the beginning of a silent hiss. 

Soundwave was ominously still. 

Another knock and then a familiar deep voice asked, “Soundwave? Are you awake?”

Jazz closed his optics, too frozen in fear and the weight of not knowing what to do.

“I’m afraid this can’t wait.” Reverb said, voice more insistent. “So, please. Open the door for me, would you?”


	21. Undeserving

_“Hurt me with the truth_

_but never comfort me with a lie.”_

                                                                                      

—Alleupation

 

Ravage’s scarlet gaze met with that of her host mech’s, a silent conversation passing between them that went unheard by the saboteur standing stiff and frozen in the corner of the room. It started and ended in an instant and before Jazz had even opened his optics, Soundwave was making his way to the door and Ravage was roughly pushing against the back of his legs with her head, silently herding him towards the open doors that led to the balcony. 

The saboteur grimaced when the first push against his legs nearly had him falling flat onto his face, turning to stare at the feline with an unhappy look. But Ravage wasn’t focused on him; every nudge was followed by a wary glance back at her host mech and when Jazz finally complied and stumbled onto the balustrade, she only muttered that ‘he stay out of sight’ before slamming the doors behind him. 

For a brief moment Jazz’s shadow hovered through the thin material of the curtains but he quickly made his way to the side, disappearing to sit in the corner where the wall met the railing.

Ravage turned to Soundwave, who was standing still by the door with a hand hovering over the matrixpad, and gave a brief nod of confirmation. 

Mimicking the gesture, Soundwave pressed his palm against the scanner and the door slid open to reveal Reverb, who just so happened to have a look of annoyance on his face. In his arms was a small box, elegantly adorned and with a simple holographic card resting snugly on top of it. As Reverb brushed inside without so much as a verbal greeting, the top of the card became visible and Soundwave stiffened when he recognized the large red seal plastered square in the middle. 

Frowning, he watched as Reverb made his way to stand in the middle of the room, that orange visor flaring bright as it glanced quickly around the room before he pivoted on his heel to look at Soundwave. He didn’t even spare Ravage a glance.

“Have you seen this?” The red mech asked, lifting the holocard between the index and middle finger of his free hand. He scoffed disbelievingly, shaking his helm. 

Ravage shared a glance with Soundwave from behind Reverb’s back, alarm in her scarlet depths. Both of them recognized the personal seal of the Prime on that card, they’d seen it on dozens of official documents back when reconstruction was barely finding its feet, but neither understood what it was doing on a box in Reverb’s arms. Ravage’s annoyance simmered through the bond, indicating her annoyance and anxiety with the whole situation. Jazz was on the balcony, where anybody had a good chance of catching a glimpse of him and Reverb was in here asking the same questions that were coursing through both of the former Decepticons’ minds. 

Soundwave was no stranger to being at a loss for words, his stoic silence became his trademark during the war, a weapon he used to force enemies to rethink their attacks and for allies to remain wary of him. Some mistook his demeanor for a bot who exuded arrogance but in reality, Soundwave was just a bot who knew what he was doing and turned out to be surprisingly good at his job. He just believed actions spoke for themselves much better than mere words could. 

That didn’t make him any less of an eloquent speaker when the time came. Despite his monotone and clipped sentences, Soundwave was a composed and succinct communicator and few individuals ever found themselves with the need to ask him for any reiterations. 

But for what seemed like the nth time that night, he was speechless. It was a rarity to get him to look so stupefied but the causes of his reaction were rarities in themselves. 

Reverb lips pursed, helm tilting to one side in confusion as he was met with silence where he was used to receiving answers. “Soundwave?” 

Noticing her host mech’s silence, Ravage cleared her throat loudly, prompting the red mech to glance back behind him. The feline sat back onto her haunches, tail flicking. 

“Do you have a hairball lodged in your throat?” 

Ignoring the quip, Ravage said, “That’s the Prime’s seal. I don’t understand why you’re so surprised by it.” 

Reverb smiled, the action lacking any mirth. “I know what it is, dear. I’m just confused why Argyrus, of all mechs, would get an invitation to a private gala being hosted at the Prime’s residence? Did they become close friends with Cybertron’s main political leader without my noticing?” 

The feline gave a tentative sniff into the air then snorted. “Is that fear I smell on you, Reverb?” 

“Hardly,” Reverb retorted far too easily. “But I’m not eager to find my sister’s conjunx embroiled in any politics that rebuilding creates. This place is a sanctuary, after all, and we don’t want any unwanted attention thrust upon mechs and femmes looking to find a comfortable niche to retire to.” 

“You’re running a retirement home?” Ravage retorted, truly amused. 

“No,” Reverb said. “A sanctuary. And unless you want that little tail of yours to get stepped on again, I suggest you use the appropriate term.” He shook his head and waved the card in the air, turning away from her. “But we’re derailing.” 

An orange visor focused on Soundwave. “Sounders.” His voice adopted that usual saccharine tone, filled with faux warmth that anybody with a bit of sense could easily see through. “Mind telling me what this is about?” 

To Ravage’s immense relief, Soundwave reacted instantaneously. “Negative,” the telepath said, stepping towards his red counterpart and staring at the offered card. 

For a moment Reverb simply stared at the blue host mech, lips pursed as he scrutinized the bot he claimed to care so deeply for. But then he let out a small exvent and dropped the card back on top of the little box in his hands. Stepping closer, the red mech placed a hand on the telepath’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Soundwave,” the red mech intoned, voice heavy. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Affirmative.” 

Reverb asked, “Are you happy here?”

To any other bot, the question was exceedingly simple. Vague and with just enough leeway that any answer could satisfactorily sate the questioner’s curiosity. But Soundwave easily saw through Reverb’s simple phrasing, detecting the hidden words that went unspoken between them. It didn’t escape either of their notice that Soundwave had sequestered himself in his quarters, relying on his symbionts to keep him apprised of the day to day happenings of the estate. Meals were the few times he and the red mech saw one another and though they were enjoyable, the mundane routine became old rather quickly. 

Reverb knew that Soundwave’s sharp mind needed activity, something to keep it occupied, and the quiet little proceedings of the state would certainly be doing no good to the telepath. But what the red mech didn’t know was that Soundwave had enough on his plate to keep him on his toes. 

Or that the telepath, for the first time since he’d arrived, felt disinclined to share any of the orn’s revelations with him. It was an odd feeling, one that Soundwave hadn’t experienced since trying to navigate the dirty politics of Decepticon social hierarchy, and it made him uneasy. But he trusted his instincts more than his Spark. Because apparently it was capable of going behind his back and doing things it wasn’t supposed to. 

So, with a small dip of his head, he replied. “Affirmative.”

Reverb scoffed softly, playing with the small box in his hands. “I know we haven’t had time to properly sit down and discuss everything that’s happened in our lives. That I’ve claimed to be busy running what we have here and dealing with Argyrus’ political stunts. But you understand that it’s not because I don’t consider our relationship a priority, right? I kept you informed of what I was doing here in Uraya because you matter to me.” A small brief pause followed as his shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “I haven’t told you everything, not yet, but I will. And I want you to know that there will come a time when we can live happily without things like these ruining everything.” 

A small nag in the back of Soundwave’s processor alerted him to the odd wording and any other time he would have pushed the feeling aside but he let it settle, latching onto his processor and slowly beginning to fester.

Reverb smiled, looking at him with that oddly hopeful glimmer in his optics. “I haven’t asked you about your life involving the war because I respect that it’s not something that makes for easy conversation. But I am genuinely interested in hearing about it; your experiences and everything that turned you into who you are now.” He gestured to the objects in his hands. “Maybe this is a sign, y’know? A way for us to know the bots that turned the painfully shy host mech into a formidable warrior.” 

Soundwave stiffened, only for a second, before he simply shrugged. “Perhaps.” 

The grin that spread across Reverb’s face was oddly hopeful. “Good.” He placed the small box on the small recliner in the corner of the room and subspaced the holocard. “Well, it is terribly late and I apologize for intruding. But I just got back from a small trip I had in Crystal City and very recently learned of this gala and the invitation we’ve received. I’ll be out of your way now.” 

Without waiting for confirmation on Soundwave’s behalf, Reverb made his way to the room’s entrance, pressing his palm against the door and offering one last smile over his shoulder before stepping into the hall and disappearing behind the closed door. 

In the silence that followed, two simultaneous exvents sounded, as symbiont and host mech released a breath they had no idea they’d been holding in. Soundwave’s stiff posture relaxed, the sound of hissing hydraulics echoing through the small room as the host mech took a few steps and all but sagged into a sitting position on the edge of the berth. Ravage watched as he rested his arms on his knees, his fisted hands uncurling to reveal trembling fingers. 

“He didn’t need to come in at this hour just for that,” Ravage hissed, unsettled. Her tail cut through the air as the rose to her feet, stepping towards her host mech with the grace and poise of a predator. “I told you bringing Jazz here was a bad idea. And that mech’s arrival just proved my point.” 

“Reverb, knows nothing.” Soundwave replied stiffly. 

Ravage’s upper lip curled into the beginning of a sneer. “Did you sneak a peek into his processor? No, of course you didn’t because he would feel that, wouldn’t he? You don’t know anything. For all we know, he could just be playing you and--!” 

Soundwave was ready to retort but the sound of a creaking door forced both of them to glance up and the telepath stiffened upon catching sight of the dark grey mech and his dimmed blue visor making their way back inside, the doors shutting closed behind him. 

“Jazz.” He breathed and he almost sounded relieved. 

The saboteur lifted a hand, lips pursed. “Meister.” He corrected, voice stony. 

Ravage huffed. “Where was that sense before?” 

The saboteur shook his head, crossing his arms over his chassis. “As much as it pains me to admit, Rav’s right. This was a mistake. I never should’ve agreed to come here.” He cast a wary glance at the closed door, as if he were expecting the red host mech to barge back in and catch them in the middle of their illicit reunion. 

Soundwave’s EM field easily detected a small whiff of fear from Jazz’s and the exposé was enough to make him pause. His optics roved over the sabotuer’s frame, taking in the anxious posture and the wandering gaze that seems to never linger on more than one corner of the room at a time. Ravage sent a small pulse through the bond, indicating that he smelled more fearful than anything else. 

The telepath’s gaze fell once more to the saboteur’s ventrum, to the place he’d pressed his hand to confirm his words. 

Soundwave dind’t need telepathy to prove that Jazz was carrying. The sensitive sensors in his hands alerted him immediately of the fact, of the tiny form that was way too advanced in the gestation stage to coincide with Reverb’s story. It made Soundwave feel a tiny bit relieved to hear that the creation wasn’t Argyrus, that nobot had touched Jazz since that mission. Though the telepath wasn’t stupid enough to consider it loyalty because the last time they’d seen each other, they’d forsaken the other’s existence and little to no feelings had lingered between them. 

At least not on Jazz’s behalf. 

Was it possible Jazz had been trying to tell him about the creation during their conversation back in Tarn? Had Soundwave been so blinded by his loyalty to the ties he held with the bots in this estate that he hadn’t noticed that the one who more than deserved to demand it had been standing right in front of him? 

Ravage rumbled, amused by his train of thought and she repeated the question she’d asked Jazz. 

Where was that sense when it’d been needed? 

“Meister.” Soundwave said, hating that he couldn’t even speak the saboteur’s true name. “What are your plans concerning the...creation?” 

The hesitation in his voice is reflective of his uncertainty but Jazz’s optics narrowed in suspicion. Taking a step back, it’s impossible to miss how the dark grey mech’s arms wrapped around himself, torso pivoting away in a gesture that was more protective than confrontational. “It doesn’t concern you.” He hissed.

“Soundwave, disagrees. Creation is mine.”

Jazz’s EM shifted, going from fearful to anxious, and he tensed, as if expecting Soundwave to lunge at him. “Maybe you’re the mech responsible for this but the bitlet isn’t yours.” Jazz retorted forcefully. “You can’t just claim ownership over somebot like that. You have to earn their trust. You have to deserve it."

That made Soundwave pause. Deserve? He hadn’t even known! 

The saboteur grimaced, not even giving him the opportunity to reply. “And don’t you slagging dare try anything funny. Cause I won’t be afraid to cut you down to size. Believe me, I still have full range of motion regardless of all the extra weight.” 

Ravage snorted but she and her host could detect the growing paranoia in the mech, the way he shielded his ventrum and looked just about ready to bolt from the room. Jazz was afraid of them, and he was trying his absolute hardest not to show it. It made Soundwave’s spark twist painfully in his chest; did the mech truly think so little of him? 

“Meister is safe.” Soundwave said, careful to keep his hands’ movements slow and methodical as he lifted them to pat the air in a gesture of comfort. “No harm will befall you.” He quickly added, “either of you.” 

Jazz wasn’t that easy to convince, unfortunately. “Really? Just like that?” 

Ravage sighed. “You’re just looking for trouble, aren’t you?”

The saboteur turned to look at her with a grim expression. “I have more than enough bots aiming for my back to be paranoid,” he explained, voice tart. “And the few who’ve stood up for me have paid the price.”

His voice shook, tinged with sadness and Soundwave frowned, caught off guard by the onslaught of melancholy rolling off the saboteur. The host mech cast an inquisitive glance towards the ebony feline beside him but she shrugged, indicating she had no idea who the mech was talking about. 

“Anyways,” Jazz said, breaking them out of their silent conversation. He straightened up, wiping imaginary dust off his frame. “I have to leave.” 

Soundwave’s visor flashed. “Conversation, not finished.” 

“I have to go,” Jazz said again, a little more quietly, and he quickly made his way towards the door Reverb had disappeared through. 

“Meister.” Ravage whispered lowly. “You can’t just wander out there at this time of the night. Don’t the servants have curfew?” 

The saboteur scoffed disbelievingly, turning to look at them over the cusp of his shoulder. “What? Do you expect me to recharge in here? With you?” His visor flashed dangerously as he gestured towards Soundwave with a harsh jerk of his chin. “With _him_?” 

The host mech ignored the pang that went through his Spark at the dark grey mech’s tone. 

“It’s better than risk going out and getting caught.” Ravage retorted, taking a step forth. 

For a brief moment, Jazz actually seemed to consider the idea. His gaze roved around the room, lingering longingly on the plush comfortable berth, but he eventually gave his helm a tiny shake of denial. 

“No.” He said, pressing his palm against the matrixpad and opening the door. To their relief, nobody was standing there and when Jazz poked his head out to look around, he visibly relaxed and one hand went to hold the doorway briefly before he righted himself. 

“I’m sorry.” The whispered words were all that were passed between them before Jazz disappeared and the door obscured him from view. 

Symbiont and host stood in silence for a long while, both mulling over the events that had occurred in the tiny span of time since Jazz’s arrival. Eventually, Ravage let out a haggard exvent, giving her upper frame a terse shake, as if that would be enough to dispel the stress that had built up inside of her. 

Soundwave breathed, “Situation...complicated.” 

“Which part? The one where Argryus got invited to a private gala or the one where Jazz told you you somehow managed to spark him up after only one spark merge that happened quartexes ago?”

“Both.” Soundwave said, not appreciating her sarcastic quipping. 

The ebony feline looked eager to retort but she instead rolled her optics, staring down at her paws and flickering her claws in and out. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, Jazz wasn’t lying. I got a good whiff of him tonight...and he smells a bit like you.” 

There was a ‘but’ lingering in her words and Soundwave nudged her through the bond, urging her to continue. 

“But the smell’s faint. Normally, that means that a carrier and sire have been separated for long periods of time, which you both have but it often also means that another bot is providing the...transfluid donations to aid in the bitlet’s gestation process.” 

Soundwave stilled. 

“Carriers have high interfacing drives,” Ravage said, quickly trying to soothe the mixture of emotions rising up inside the blue host mech. “Without you...he was bound to look somewhere else.” 

“I know.” Soundwave said, and the words are said so softly that Ravage had to strain to hear him. But the weight of his pain is almost deafening. There’s much to be said, so much left unspoken but Ravage understands that now is not the time. With a huff that’s both a sigh of defeat and exasperation, she makes her way to Soundwave’s side and presses her head against his leg. His hand slips to the top of her head in response, heavy and comforted and they quietly draw from each other’s strength, hoping for a beacon of hope in the sea of turmoil currently surrounding them. 

Morning was on the horizon, the dawn of a new day just on the brink. 

All they had to do was hold themselves together in time for it to arrive.

~~~ 

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Jespa’s groggy optics struggled to focus as she opened the door of her lab, half-expecting some simpering dimwit standing bleeding and complaining of a practice wound or, Primus forbid, yet another interfacing injury.

But those green optics flew open comically wide as she took in who had the gall to knock so loudly on her door.

Meister was staring up at her silently, seething with pursed lips and arms crossed angrily over his chest. She braced an arm against the doorway, one hand sliding up to rest on her hip as she stared him down with equal defiance.

“Meister.”

“Why didn’t you tell me Odeon was being transferred?”

Jespa frowned. “What?”

“Odeon,” Jazz said forcefully, patience waning. “He’s in Crystal City, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” the medic said, sounding confused. “His condition had worsened. He was getting weaker, sicker and I didn’t have the resources to treat him anymore.” She paused. “Reverb was the one who offered to take him to a new clinic that opened up in Crystal City.”

Jazz froze. “Reverb?”

Jespa nodded. “Apparently Odeon’s an old friend or something. I had no idea but he seemed pretty vested in sending him off. Said he’d receive nothing but state of the art care.” A shoulder rose and fell in a shrug. “Poor mech was suffering enough. Least he deserved was a proper sending off.”

Inside of the saboteur, a little threat of panic twisted tightly. “Oh.” His arms fell to his side, helm falling as he stared down at the door in defeat. It was done. His only sense of stability, the only mech who gave two slags about him, was gone. Jazz had originally claimed that he didn’t care, that Odeon was just a means to an end, a source of assistance in the raising of a bitlet he seemed to both despise and love so very fiercely. But it seemed he’d been fooling nobody but himself.

For the first time, Jazz felt completely and utterly alone.

He wanted to curl up on the floor, press his cheek against the cool floor and wallow in his misery. Because he’d been fighting so damn hard all this time, keeping on his toes, maneuvering through the politics of the social hierarchy, the uncertainty of his future, the weight of the lives that would be lost if he didn’t find a way to get back to Iacon...

Wait.

Iacon.

He stood up straight, ignoring Jespa’s small gasp of surprise and inquisitive stare as he sorted through the memory files of the conversation he’d previously eavesdropped in. Reverb had come barging in complaining about an invitation to a gala, one hosted by Optimus, the Prime himself. That in itself was nothing out of the ordinary; senators and politicians held fancy balls all the time, especially during the golden age when appearances had been everything.

Any bot would think Optimus was aiming for something cordial, an event to get the representatives from the Assembly on his side.

But Jazz knew his former commander almost as well as he knew his own neural network. Optimus hated social gatherings. Megatron absolutely despised them. So why on Cybertron were they going out of their way to organize one?

Suddenly, it clicked.

Prowl.

He wanted to laugh; it was so fragging obvious!

Jazz’d been gone for decaorns, with no communications or anything to let the bots back home know that he was even still kicking. For all they knew he’d disappeared, gone under the radar and they’d finally, after all this time, found a way to organize a way for him to get back without raising an alarm. 

The subtlety in this was ingenious. It had Prowl’s name written all over it.

Representatives brought along couriers all the time to events like these. Personal retainers, bots who would be brought to help the host’s staff with the service, anyone who could lend a helping hand behind the scenes or who could boost the representative’s image.

Jazz knew he wasn’t on the list of invitees (how could he be when he was supposedly carrying the illegitimate spawn of Argyrus?) but that didn’t mean he was completely barred from it. He had to find a way to make it on that list.

“Meister?” Jespa snapped her fingers in front of his visor. “You doing okay?”

Blinking rapidly, the saboteur nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “never better.” He knew he was going to the pit for looking so happy, especially since he’d just been mourning the loss of a friend, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

He was getting out of this hellhole. And nobody, not even Soundwave, would be able to stop him.

Because he finally had what he’d been lacking all this time. That one little thing that could prove to be the defining factor in whether the mission proved to be a success or not.

Hope.

~~~

**[FIVE ORNS LATER]  
**

 The door to Prowl’s office smashed open and the stone-faced commissioner rubbed his face, warm cube of Energon (with a smidge of high grade for an extra boost) nestled snuggly in his remaining hand. He’d barely returned from his brief three orn recess and already things were bad enough that his normally stoic officers were busting down the door.

“What is it?” He said tiredly, glancing up to stare at the hulking form of his lieutenant. Riot looked livid, his doorwings hiked up along his back and optics narrowed into slits. Behind him, Silverwing skidded to a screeching stop, squeezing into the tight space (carefully avoiding the silver mech) and looking at Prowl with an exasperated expression.

“It wasn’t my fault, commissioner!” 

“What?” Prowl said, more alert when he noticed that both mechs’ EM fields were pulsing with disbelief. Something big had definitely happened. 

“Someone,” Riot hissed, casting a side-eye glance in the Seeker’s direction. “Slacked off on their shift this morning.” 

“I didn’t--!” 

“Shut up, Silverwing.” Riot said, raising a hand before slamming it down on the dge of Prowl’s desk. The former tactician, well used to violent outbursts, didn’t even flinch.

“What happened?” Prowl asked, trying to ease the tension and focus their attention on him. 

“The prisoner’s dead.” Silverwing said, cringing when he realized he said it out loud and taking a moment to glance around, shut the door and pull down the blinds that gave the other officers in the adjacent room a view of the inside of Prowl’s office. The former Autobot SIC sipped his Energon, appreciating the burn as it went down his intakes. 

That wasn’t good news. “How?” He asked, voice flinty. 

“She had a small bullet casing lodged in one of her back dental plates,” the Seeker said. “She bit down on it...and it exploded.” He subspaced a datapad, lips pursed tightly as he stepped forward and handed it to the black and white mech. 

“It blew her processor to bits.” Riot said distastefully, lips twisting to one side as Prowl powered up the datapad and swiped through the preliminary report and the less than savory pictures that followed suit. 

Prowl narrowed his optics, undeterred by the gruesome imagery. He lifted his head to stare at the Seeker, feeling it was necessary to draw attention to Riot’s accusations. “Silverwing. Judging by Riot’s reaction, I assume you were the mech responsible for keeping watching?” 

Silver wings with black decals dipped in defeat. “Yes, sir.” 

“Where were you?” 

Riot huffed. “He was flirting with a fragging criminal.” 

The Seeker sucked in air sharply through his vents, optics glowing with silent fury. “For the last time, Riot, I wasn’t _flirting_.” He turned to Prowl, shaking his head. “The femme was taking up space in the prison cells and Arc was complaining that there wouldn’t be enough holding units ever since they caught that group of bots that’d raided that brothel on the outskirts of the city. Nea wasn’t moving. Nobody was anywhere near her cell. I checked the femme out, went back to my station and in less than a nanoklik, the prisoner was struggling, she bit down on her cheek and bam.” 

Prowl pinched the bridge of his noseplate, staving off yet another processor ache. There was always something. If it wasn’t Uraya, it was Praxus. If it wasn’t Jazz taking up half of his prcessing power, it was either his lieutenant or his newly promoted officer. He’d once claimed he’d never find a pair of mechs that could give him more trouble than Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had given him when they were stationed on Earth but yet here he was. 

“Silverwing,” he turned to stare at the Seeker. “I need you to head over to Ethical Resources and sign a memory download consent form.” 

“What?” 

“Evidence,” Prowl said. “I would suggest mnuemosurgery but I know you’re uncomfortable when it comes to that. I have a bot whose more than qualified to download your recent memories and submit them for review.” 

Silverwing frowned. “Wait. You don’t think I had something to do with it, do you?” 

Riot rounded on him, wings stiff on his broad back. “What? Got something to hide?” 

“No.” The Seeker deadpanned. “But I have the right to question this course of action.” 

Prowl raised a hand, cutting off Riot before he could retort. “The procedure’s noninvasive.” He said. “And no, you’re not under suspicion. But your memories are an asset.” Optics narrowed, Prowl turned to Riot. “Yours, too.”

That made the silver mech freeze. “What?” 

“I need you to sign the form, too.” 

“No, I heard that. I just need to know why. I wasn’t even in the station when this happened. I was out looking for the femme that Silverwing released because he didn’t even bother to put her information into the system.”

Prowl swore under his breath. He’d only been gone three fragging orns. 

“You’re the only other bot that’s been involved in this...operation. Anything you offer can help us get to the bottom of this.” Prowl downed the rest of his drink, wincing when the last swig tasted of the high grade that had gathered at the bottom of this cube. Swallowing roughly, Prowl shut the datapad off and rose from his desk, doorwings high and authoritative. 

“Understood?”

Silverwing gave a quick salute, two fingers tapping lightly against his forehelm. “Yes, sir.” Sparing his peer no final glance, the Seeker turned on his heels and exited out the door. Riot remained behind, looking more shaken and unsteady than Prowl ever remembered him being. He tried to teek his EM field but to his chagrin, the lieutenant had it wrapped tightly around himself. 

Something wasn’t right. 

“Are you alright?”

Riot flinched slightly but he quickly caught himself and nodded. “Yeah,” he gave a weak breath of a laugh. “I am.” But he looked anything but. 

Prowl frowned, leaning towards the mech that had been his right-hand bot since he’d first been awarded his prestigious position. Riot had been a Nuetral, through and through, and it showed in his aversion to violence. There was still an uncertainty to him, somethings that he had yet to reveal and that Prowl still hadn’t quite figured out but the former tactician trusted him. 

They’d saved each other’s afts enough times for that milestone to be reached. But that didn’t mean Prowl’s tacnet refused to overanalyze every interaction, gauging his lieutenant’s reactions until it found something to focus on. It wasn’t paranoia. Just a habit picked up and not easily staved after the war. 

“Okay,” Prowl said, nodding. “Well, in that case, you’re dismissed.”

If Riot had anything against being treated with the curt professionalism Prowl showed everyone else, he said nothing. He just mimicked the black and white mech’s gesture. 

“Fine.” 

Prowl waved him out and it was only when Riot’s back was turned that a sharp pain near the bottom of his bumper had him inhaling sharply, hand groping and gripping the edge of the table as he found himself momentarily disorientated for what seemed like the third time that morning. He blamed the spiked Energon but his inner musings said it probably had to do with the fact that he’d let the Twins all but ‘face him into oblivion two orns ago. All the positions they’d roped him into trying, it’s a wonder he hadn’t broken anything. 

But still, he’d booked a quick checkup with Ratchet just to make sure it was nothing serious. He’d always been careful and with the stakes currently riding on everything, he couldn’t afford for anything to put him out of commission. 

His commlink beeped, alerting him of an incoming message and recognizing the signal, he opened it immediately. 

_::Caterer cancelled.::_ Even with those two words, Megatron’s dry humor still shone through. Prowl told him to look for another, sending the information of the vendor that had provided the concessions at the reception of Bluestreak’s bonding. A databurst of confirmation followed, the former gladiator’s own version of a wordless thanks. 

Neither of the former commanders were enjoying the task of preparing for a gala but it had proven to be a last resort to get Argyrus and Jazz into the spotlight; there was no guarantee the plan would work, even with Prowl’s tacnet having run the simulations. There were too many variables, very few overlaps and a myriad of possibilities that Prowl had been afraid to venture into. 

The only thing that kept him going was knowing that Jazz was alive. He had to be because they’d received no notary, nothing that preened about anything relating to the sudden disappearance of the saboteur. Judging by his silence, it was easier to deduce he was simply staying off the radar by laying low. They’d been loath to involve any more bots in on the operation; ever since the whole failed assassination attempt, everyone involved had grown too paranoid to extend their circle. 

Not to mention their courses of actions were enough to throw them all into prison (or a very lengthy trial) if they weren’t careful and got caught. 

A wise choice though extremely limiting. But they were treading on thin ice, slowly running out of options. Bots had taken to the streets recently, demanding explanations about the whole event with a few news anchors bringing up theories and speculations that did little to paint either Megatron and Optimus in a favorable light. The gala, for all its intents and purposes, was becoming a necessity. For both the mission and the elevation of the former commanders’ status among the people. 

Prowl straightened up, grabbing his empty cube from the table and heading out to dump it into the precinct’s communal kitchenette sink. He could easily leave it in his office but he enjoyed the small trip through the station’s headquarters; it allowed him the opportunity to check in on his officers, see how the atmosphere outside his office was and whether or not there were any problems that he had to look into. 

Apart from the dead mercenary, of course. Prowl was livid that they’d missed something so inane but what was done was done. They hadn’t been getting anywhere with her...and now that she was dead, they’d rely on an autopsy to get them the answers they couldn’t glean while she’d been alive. 

He caught a glimpse of Silverwing arguing with the ER representative, his wide silver and black decal wings difficult to miss and the former tactician couldn’t help but find his exaggerated actions amusing. It was sometimes hard to forget that Silverwing wasn’t a newspark fresh out of the Well, especially when he went from being a competent and effective officer in the field to a blithering newbie in the office. 

Once he reached his desired location and set the cube in the sink, he was surprised to see yet another message in his inbox and he opened it expecting Megatron again. But to his surprise it was Ratchet.

The former CMO was asking if Prowl would be willing to up their scheduled appointment, claiming that there was something he had to tell him and that he wouldn’t be available when Prowl got off his own shift. It was an odd request but the vagueness intrigued Prowl and he sent a confirmation, checking his chronometer and realizing that if he wanted to make it to the newly rescheduled appointment in time, he’d have to leave almost immediately. 

Inconvenient but when it came to Ratchet, Prowl had learned it was easier to simply comply. He cast a glance around the station, well aware of the curious optics on him and he frowns, hoping that would prompt some of the more gullible viewers into getting back to their work. 

It does. 

He waits for Silverwing to emerge from the small office, a small datapad in hand, and stops the Seeker with a hand on one shoulder. The winged mech looks vaguely annoyed as he gestures to the device in his hand.

“I got the signature.”

Prowl nodded. “Good. Now please, put it in my office if you don’t mind. I’m heading out.” 

Silverwing frowned. “Where to? Need some backup?”

“No.” Lowering his voice, Prowl steered him away from the other bots and near the closed doorway of his office. “It’s a personal matter. But I will be back as soon as possible and I want you to make sure things remain under control.” 

“You sure, sir?” Silverwing asked, helm tilting to one side in question. “Riot’s not going to like that.”

Prowl knew he wasn’t. He was counting on it. “Riot isn’t here. And I’m quite sure that your recent promotion wasn’t just for show. You can handle things yourself just fine.” Truth be told, Prowl was finding Riot’s actions in the office to be gnawing at him and the last thing he needed right now was more secrecy. Silverwing’s blunt honesty, while a disadvantage during emotionally trying times, served him better.

“You got it.” Silverwing said, nodding. “Good luck with...whatever you’re doing.”

Prowl’s lips twitched. “Thank you.” And with that, he pivoted on his heel and made his way towards the exit of the building.

The drive to Rodion was mostly uneventful and the lack of traffic and pedestrians made for a smooth ride that helped Prowl clear his head. His helm was aching, like it always was, and his tacnet was still trying to sort through everything that had occurred in the past few orns. He’d crashed in the middle of a meeting some time ago and took a mandatory vacation for the sake of keeping himself in as considerable health as possible. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had been livid, telling him he was working too hard and that he spent too much time worrying about things that warranted little attention.

Of course, neither of them knew that it wasn’t the job as commissioner that was taking it’s toll on him. It was everything else that was happening right underneath everyone else’s noses. But Prowl wasn’t about to reveal any of his underhanded endeavors to his mates, no matter how much they prodded and pleaded. He cared too much about them to put the burden on their shoulders.

He knew it would come back to bite him in the aft. Situations like these always ended negatively. But he was content to carry the blame for all three of them; it was in his nature, after all.

The clinic was quiet when Prowl made his way inside and the receptionist at the front desk smiled knowingly when he came up.

“Prowl.” She said.

“Moonracer,” Prowl said, remembering the femme’s name easily. She’d been under his command during the war enough times for her sharpshooting skills to remain engrained in memory.

“Ratchet’s in the back, expecting you.” She said, pulling up a datapad. “You just need to sign here and verify your method of payment.”

The Praxian read the small print quickly, pressed his finger against the screen and consented to all the necessary details. Smiling, Moonracer gestured for him to go through the door next to the desk.

Ratchet was standing next to a small refrigeration unit in the back corner of the room, setting small vials of pink liquid into the unit and ticking them off on the small counter he had in his hand. He lifted a hand in greeting, not looking back and he said nothing until he finished his task and closed the door with an audible click.

It didn’t escape Prowl’s notice that Ratchet looked considerably more tired than he’d remembered. The derma under his optics was dark and lidden and the frown lines around his mouth were more prominently etched, as if he hadn’t smiled in a long time.

It certainly wasn’t because of work. Prowl knew that Ratchet’s clinic, while financially stable, did not receive as much clientele as the more popular medical centers that had popped up in every city. Ratchet’s fees were higher and bots seemed to favor the cheaper fares of streamlined medical practitioners.

“Ratchet,” Prowl said, infusing as much warmth as he could into the greeting. Guilt at not having kept up with the medic’s life gnawed at him but when Ratchet huffed in that familiar irritable manner, the tactician knew he needn’t worry.

“You only drop in for visits when you need something,” the red and white medic said, gesturing for Prowl to sit on the only cot in the room. It squeaked under Prowl’s weight but neither paid it any heed.

“Everything is on a need to know basis,” Prowl said softly, as if that would be enough to explain the lack of communication between them.

Ratchet shrugged, typing something into the small screen on his arm with sure dexterous fingers. “I figured.” He paused, “How’s Jazz doing? Still kicking?”

The black and white mech stiffened, glancing back at the door and the femme that lay just beyond it.

“Don’t worry; it’s soundproof.” Ratchet said, waving a hand.

Even with the conformation, Prowl found it difficult to relax. “He’s still alive.”

The wording made Ratchet halt, fingers frozen over his arm and blue optics narrowed as he lifted his helm to look the former SIC in the optics. “What?”

“He’s alive. But we’ve been unable to communicate with him, unfortunately.” Prowl’s hands tightened against the edge of the cot, fingertips digging into the cold metal. “He stopped checking in approximately four decaorns ago.”

“Slag.” Ratchet breathed, shoulders slumping and helm turning to look at anything but Prowl. His EM field flared with guilt and regret and the tactician frowned deeply, attention momentarily derailed by the sudden influx of emotions from the former CMO.

“Ratchet?”

“Remember when I said I had something I needed to tell you?” The medic said, slowly turning to look at Prowl. “In my message, the one I sent to you earlier?" 

Prowl’s frown deepened. “Yes.”

“Well, it has something to do with—” The words hadn’t even left Ratchet’s mouth before the pain was back again and Prowl was doubling over, mouth open and gasping as the pain swept through every sensor and node in his entire frame, centering strongly over his chassis. Immediately, red hands were helping lower him face-up on the cot and through the pain, Prowl felt the familiar tingle of a scanner brushing over him. Ratchet stared down at him with a surprised look on his face, one that hardened into a look of exasperation when he hovered the scanner over Prowl’s chest and watched the red light turn a telling green.

“Well,” Ratchet said unpleasantly. “That’s just peachy.”

“What?” Prowl asked, thankfully coherent enough to find his voice and ask the question.

The medic huffed, shaking his helm in mirthless amusement. He transferred the data in the scanner to one of the portable monitor screens beside the cot and wheeled it to where Prowl could see. Blue optics shuttering to focus, Prowl realized that it was a detailed scan of his Sparkchamber. Despite his vast knowledge, Prowl had limited experience with reading medical instruments and he looked at Ratchet with a slightly confused look.

Ratchet closed his optics briefly, sighing. “This is your Sparkchamber.” He said, pointing to a large oval shaped outline on the screen. He pointed to a bright blue dot in the center, with wisps of different colored hues surrounding it and making it look startlingly similar to a desecrated spider’s web. “That’s your Spark.” He hesitated, gauging Prowl’s reaction before slowing lowering his finger to point at a small wispy dot, almost unnoticeable until the medic brought attention to it. “And that’s a newspark.”

For a moment, Prowl simply stared, the words falling on deaf audials. Then realization slowly crept in and he found himself freezing, disbelief and shock lingering in his systems. Ratchet look unamused, as if he’d been doing this same routine for vorns on end.

Prowl wasn’t surprised. He and the Twins had sparkmerged several times in the past orns. It was unexpected but certainly not unwarranted.

Something in his expression seemed to catch Ratchet’s attention. “You’re not surprised?”

“No.” The tactician said, surprisingly calm giving the news. “I haven’t been careful during my interfaces.”

“Hmph. Well, hold onto whatever rationale you have because it gets even better.” Two more dots were pointed out on the screen and that was when Prowl felt as if someone had dumped a cold bucket of coolant over his head.

“Are those...?”

“Congratulations, Prowl.” Ratchet said, sounding sad and exasperated. “You’re now the proud carrier of triplets.” He crossed his arms over his chestplate, a pinched expression on his face. “Really, you couldn’t have had better timing. Bluestreak was here with the same symptoms but at least he had been expecting it.”

“This...complicates things.” Prowl said simply. 

“You think?”

Prowl nodded. “There is much that needs to be dealt with.” Optics brightening for a moment, the tactician’s optic ridges furrowed in apprehension. “But first. You said you had something to tell me?”

Ratchet hesitated and Prowl saw flickers of an internal battle waging in the medic’s blue optics. But something inside of him ended up losing because he sighed and shook his head, looking uneasy despite what should have been a happy revelation.

“No,” he said at last. “Now’s not the time.”


	22. The Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soundwave makes a startling revelation.

_“Distance, timing, breakdown,_

_fighting, silence, this_

_train runs off its tracks,_

_kiss me, try to fix it,_

_but could you just try to listen?”_

 

Ravage had been getting increasingly more difficult to get a hold of since Soundwave’s meeting with Jazz. The telepath could sense her through the quantum bond but every time he tried to reach out and contact her, she’d put up a block or say she was on her way and then take joors to arrive at his location.

He’d like to say she was avoiding him. But given how most of his cassettes had been doing the same thing, he’d come to a much more different conclusion over time. They were investigating something; he wasn’t quite sure what but there was no other reason as to why Rumble and Frenzy would willingly spend time with their eldest sibling without the end of pranking or getting on her nerves.

There’d been little discord between his symbionts. On a good day, that would have been swell news. But given the situation, Soundwave couldn’t help but be uncertain.

Jazz had refused to meet with him anymore and the telepath hadn’t tried to force the saboteur into doing so. But Soundwave had kept an optic on him, the mech’s words about other bots aiming for his back making him uneasy. It was no secret the saboteur had no friends in the estate and so Soundwave strove to at least keep an optic on him whenever he could. If for nothing else than responsibility for the whole situation in the first place.

The dark grey mech was getting more pronounced in his carrying stage and his emotions had been all over the place as a result. One time Soundwave had found him in the gardens clawing out the edible crystals he was supposed to be tending, muttering curses and obscenities that would have been blaspheming to Primus but made Unicron smile. When he’d finished, he’d realized his deed and suddenly began to panic; Soundwave had asked Ravage to take the blame and she’d hissed and argued but eventually agreed, albeit with a dark storm cloud looming over her.

He’d like to say that was the start to the dissension between them. But if he were honest, the rift had been created ever since their first mission to Uraya and it was only now that the cracks in their relationship had begun to show.

“What do you want?” Ravage asked dryly, slinking down from the roof and onto the balcony that Soundwave was currently residing upon late into the night cycle. She gave a few sniffs into the air to make sure they were alone and came to a halt a few feet beside her host mech, tail flicking.

Soundwave turned to look at her from where he was leaning against the railing, adjusting his elbows on the thin metal and clasping his hands together.

“Ravage, impertinent.”

The feline let out her familiar hacking cough, shaking her helm in amusement. “Yes, that seems to be the only term you seem to be able to describe me with.” She snorted. “As if you’ve been doing any better.”

Soundwave sighed and switched to their quantum bond. _~You’ve been avoiding me.~_

Ravage gave him a careful stare, red optics shining like rubies in the dim lighting. _~No. I’ve been busy looking after Jazz.~_

The telepath stared right back. _~Is that all you’ve been doing?~_

 _~It’s the only thing I can do. Do you have any idea how much work they’ve been giving him? They have him climbing and kneeling and squatting to clean every inch of those places the other servants aren’t too keen on going into and with the way his frame’s readjusting, I’m surprised he hasn’t popped a strut.~_ She sniffed and began to clean out her paw, flicking her toes on occasion to dislodge debris caught in between them. _~He’s being stubborn. He knows he can ask for a lighter load of work but he doesn’t seem to want to admit that his frame’s not what it used to be. If he keeps this up, he’s going to find himself going into emergence kneeling in the washracks.~_

Her words were blithe but the image they painted made Soundwave stiffen and he couldn’t control the tinge of fear and anxiety that rolled off of him. It stank the air between them and Ravage did her best to ignore it but in the end, she found herself rolling her optics and shuffling a little closer so her field could mesh with the blue mech’s. Through it, she offered some reassurance, reminding him that the saboteur wasn’t as stupid as they were painting him out to be.

 _~He’s just biding his time.~_ She said, attempting to derail the subject towards something more pressing. _~Laserbeak’s told me she’s seen him tinkering when he’s alone in the servants’ quarters. She’s not sure what he’s working on but my guess is that he’s vying for a communication device.~_

That got Soundwave’s attention. _~Communication?~_

 _~Yes. Remember when I said Jazz constantly reeks of fear and anxiety? I used to think it was because of the bitlet. But I’ve realized it isn’t because he’s carrying, though that plays a big part in it. He’s scared for himself. He wants to get out.~_ She paused. _~I’m certain he wants to get back to Iacon.~_

So Jazz was looking to escape. Soundwave had assumed Jazz’s carrying state had been part of the ruse but it turned out it was nothing more than a complication. Jazz hadn’t been anticipating the physical limitations and now he was finding himself truly incapacitated. He was, for a lack of a better word, compromised.

But was his desire to flee merely because of his handicap? Or did he find something out?

Ravage picked up on the tiny traitorous thought and she held onto it, analyzing it and fixing him with a stern glare.

 _~You think there’s something dirty here?~_ She asked, mildly surprised.

Soundwave shook his head. _~No. Of course not.~_

That prompted the feline to roll her optics, a disbelieving scoff escaping her. “Oh, you poor stupid fool.” She ignored Soundwave’s helm jerking back in surprise at the spoken insult. “After all this time spent as Megatron’s communications officer, you still refuse to ignore your instincts?”

The telepath’s engine gave a small growl of warning. _~You’re overstepping.~_

 _~I’m not.~_ Ravage retorted. _~You’re the one who’s allowed your sentimentality get in the way of your better judgement. You came back here because you thought Jazz was gone and these...mechs were the only family you had left. But now you know that Jazz isn’t dead and his presence in this estate is more than just a coincidence. He’s here investigating something.~_

Growling softly, Ravage bunched her haunches and jumped onto the railing, gracefully balancing herself as she locked her gaze on her host mech’s visor. _~Tell me something, Soundwave. You’ve only known Jazz as a lover for a few orns. But you know him better as an enemy; during the war, when have you ever seen him waste resources on something that wasn’t worthwhile? How many times had his suspicions been proven right? When have you ever seen him risk his life for something that wasn’t meaningful?~_

They remained locked in position, both silently staring the other down and refusing to back down. But as the kliks passed, Soundwave’s resolution began to falter and Ravage watched as the tiny doubt that had been gnawing at him since his conversation with Jazz finally began to bloom. He straightened up and looked away, field pulsing with uncertainty.

Even without teeking, Ravage could see that he’d finally admitted defeat.

She was expecting to feel triumphant at finally getting her host mech to see reason but all she could feel was a painful dreariness coiling in her chest. Because once more, the momentary happiness her host mech had gleaned found itself being shattered all over again. And mad and frustrated as she may have been with him, it hurt to see him go through this all over again.

Relaxing her stance, she took a seat on the railing. _~Reverb isn’t telling you the truth.~_ She said softly. _~Nobody is.~_

Soundwave stiffened for a moment, ventilations halting. But then he let it out with a small shiver. _~I know.~_

_~So what are you going to do?~_

Soundwave picked up something in her EM filed because he quickly regained his defensive posture and growled lowly under his breath. _~I’m not going to turn against Reverb. Not without proof.~_

Ravage grimaced. _~What more proof do you need? Haven’t you seen the way he smiled when he told you Jazz had been raped? How easily he dismisses any injuries reported to him about his guests and servants? He sent that orange mech to the smelter....and he told everyone he was sending him off to some clinic to get better.~_

The telepath said. _~The mech was dying. It was mercy.~_

For a brief moment, Ravage was silent. Then she asked, _~Are you saying that because that’s what you truly believe? Or is this the jealousy talking?~_

Before Soundwave could even scoff at the last question, she added. _~We all know you found that the orange mech was Jazz’s interfacing partner.~_

Soundwave tensed. _~That’s irrelevant.~_

_~Is it?~_

_~Yes.~_ Soundwave said, and his tone indicated that he’d reached the finality of the discussion of that particular topic.

Ravage was tempted to delve into it again but she knew that if she pushed him, Soundwave would close up for good. And there was still so much left to discuss. She saw a window of opportunity after orns of dancing around the subject and she wasn’t about to waste it.

_~What are you planning to do about the creation?~  
_

Soundwave flinched. _~I don’t know.~_

 _~You have to know,~_ she said, voice firm. _~Your loyalty coding is being pulled in different directions and there is going to be a time where you’ll be forced to choose. And I, for one, am growing rather fond of the bitlet so I’d like to know whether or not I’m going to have to claw some sense into you or not.~_

Her host mech looked at her with surprise. _~Since when did you start caring about the creation?~_

Ravage shrugged, glancing away. _~I’ve had a few litters in my lifetime. Kits...can be endearing when they want to be.~_

 _~You’ve had creations?~_ The curiosity the host mech was emitting was almost palatable.

Ravage ignored the question. _~Just be honest with me, Soundwave. Out of everyone involved, Megatron, Jazz, your creation, Reverb...who’s your priority? Who holds your loyalty the most?~_

Soundwave was silent for a moment, contemplating. In an instant, the first option was redacted. Megatron had disillusioned Soundwave a long time ago and the telepath’s servitude towards him was bred out of propriety more than anything else.

The last three options, however, were a blur. Soundwave cared about Jazz, he had since Uraya, and on some subconscious level, the creation as well. As a host mech, Soundwave’s coding was hardwired to nurture and protect and so it was inevitable it’d pull him towards it. But Reverb had been a catalyst in Soundwave’s life before the war, shaping and defining him in a way that was too engrained to simply forsake on the basis of a few suspicions.

He didn’t have a clear answer for Ravage but the feline could tell that whatever was to come, Jazz and the creation would remain a priority in the host mech’s perspective.

Perhaps she was wrong for pushing him towards the decision; after all, Jazz did want nothing to do with Soundwave and her lack of emotional basis with Reverb made it easy for her to spot the flaws in his personality. But Soundwave was at a turning point in his life and Ravage knew, for all she was worth, that the host mech would be more likely to find some semblance of peace if he made Jazz and the creation his purpose.

There was just too much wrong with Reverb and his acquaintances. And Ravage valued her host mech’s safety over everything else.

There was something dirty here, of that much Ravage was sure of, and she only hoped that she’d find out in time to get both mechs out before everything fell apart. Which reminded her of something else.

“The gala is in a few orns,” she said out loud. “Are you planning on going?”

Soundwave took a moment to reply. “Presence, illogical. Megatron and Optimus, would be suspicious of Soundwave’s presence.”

“Slag,” Ravage said. “You’re right.”

“Soundwave, must make arrangements.”

Ravage tilted her helm to one side, tail swishing through the air as she picked up the resolution in the blue mech’s tone. “What do you have in mind?”

Soundwave fixed her with a look that told her of his formulating plan. “Ravage, will see.”

The feline received the basis of his intent via a small databurst and her optics narrowed into slits. “That’s awfully risky.” And dangerous but she knew that he understood that portion very well.

“Affirmative.”

“You could get yourself thrown into prison.”

Soundwave dipped his helm acknowledgement.

Ravage hissed in frustration. His plan made sense and it was a charitable middle ground for the both of them, despite its risks. But it required Soundwave to talk...and she knew that her host mech was not the most eloquent of bots.

But time was running out. And this was the best they could do at the moment. With a brief shuttering of her optics and a small dip of her helm, she acknowledged the veracity of the plan. For the first time since they’d arrived, they found themselves on the same side. It felt nice and they basked in the warmth of finally being in sync but a familiar voice broke through the silence and both bots glanced down to see a familiar blue form loitering beneath their balcony.

Rethelia’s green visor shone as she grinned up at them, hands on her hips. “What are you two doing still up?”

Soundwave and Ravage shared a look. Before long, Ravage was slinking off back into their room and Soundwave activated his thrusters, jumping over the railing and landing softly beside the blue femme. They entered into an easy conversation and unseen optics watched as the two began an early stroll through the grounds of the estate, their voices hushed and drifting off as they disappeared into the gardens.

The plan had been put into motion.

 

~~~

 

The air in Iacon was buzzing.

One could almost taste the joy, the appreciation of another orn to rise and continue on with tedious work, the mundane necessities that war had made exciting. Bots smiled genuinely as they made their way down the streets, some conversing about the latest published writer or the aspiring songwriter that used Povian lyrics to gain publicity. Others were silent, minding their own business as they traveled via shuttle or vehicle, but their fields hummed with contentment.

Soundwave was not a fan of Iacon. It housed too many memories, all sentimental, and the influx of residents made it difficult to walk among the streets without getting caught in a traffic jam. It was too noisy, too busy and his helm was always buzzing with meaningless conversations. But perhaps the thing that made his plating crawl was the number of homeless bots that loitered in the corners where the bright shiny lights of the city didn’t reach.

Most of these bots were drunks; spouting wartime propaganda that’d become irrelevant with the passing of time while others were bots who mourned that they no longer had anything left to live for. They were the forgotten ones, few were veterans and most were simply bots who’d been unable to find stable footing in the blossoming society. A few were younglings and Soundwave found that recent events made it difficult for him not to notice them, with their wide bright optics and tiny hands that were curled into shaking fists as they prepared to either receive or take from whoever dared approach them.

There were resources they could reach out for to get off the streets but Soundwave knew they were anything but perfect. For some, it was easier to simply leave their fate up to chance and their own wits.

Rumble and Frenzy, both snug inside his docking chamber, sent pulses of reassurance to him. It was enough to snap him out of his melancholy reverie. Now wasn’t the time to be getting distracted. He had somewhere important to be.

Reverb had been less than pleased when Soundwave announced he’d be heading back to Iacon for a brief personal mission but he’d been nonetheless compliant. With a wave of his hand, he’d told the telepath to get his dealings in order and to return home as quickly as possible. There was much to be done, preparations that had to be completed before the night of the gala arrived. Soundwave neglected to tell Reverb that the event was the reason he was heading back to his old city-state but he knew it’d come out sooner or later. Soundwave would just have to deal with it when the time came.

Glancing up, he caught sight of the large gleaming Assembly building and his vitals twisted into knots inside of him. He wasn’t nervous, and he’d never outright admit to such a thing, but it was proving difficult to maintain the stoic façade he’d adopted eons ago during the war. Too much was thundering around in his helm for him to be completely passive and he found himself displaying small little tics that indicated he wasn’t focused.

The necessary security check fortunately went by inhibited and within moments, he found himself walking through the familiar golden hallways and making his way to the place that had started this whole mess in the first place.

The familiar forms of Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were absent from their usual place and Soundwave hesitated for the briefest of moments, wondering if perhaps he’d taken a wrong turn somewhere when he recognized Ironhide and Chromia standing guard in their stead. His steps faltered slightly as he made his way up to them and the former red Autobot let out a gruff puff of air escape his lips when his blue optics caught sight of him.

Narrowed into disbelieving slits, it was hard not to notice the dislike lingering in those azure depths.

“Soundwave. Been a while, hasn’t it?” That annoying Earth drawl he’d adopted had melted away since his return to Cybertron and Soundwave found himself feeling momentarily grateful.

“Affirmative.” Soundwave dipped his helm in a curt greeting. “Megatron, Optimus Prime, expecting my presence.”

Ironhide hummed. “Really, now?” He cast a glance at his wrist and frowned. “Funny. My chronometer says you were scheduled to be here 3 joors ago. Which means that you’re late.”

“Very late,” Chromia said with a needling grin. Her fingers on the staff she was holding wriggled playfully.

Soundwave resisted the urge to curse. Sometimes, apathy proved to be a very difficult act to uphold. “Understood. Apologies, extended. Complications arose.”

Ironhide’s optic ridges shot upwards. “Complications?” He exchanged a knowing glance with Chromia before focusing on the blue mech before him. “Now, what on Cybertron would be so important that it’d make the impeccable Soundwave late to a meeting with Cybertron’s esteemed leaders?”

Oh, many things. An undercover Autobot operative carrying his creation for starters.

The impending clash of his two lives was equally important but Soundwave’s creator coding was making it difficult to prioritize anything over the compromised saboteur waiting for him back at the estate. It was one of the reasons he’d left Ravage and the aerials behind. A big part of him said it was so he could have a couple pairs of optics on the mech but Soundwave knew that was a lie.

Jazz was dead set on escaping. And Soundwave couldn’t allow him to do anything that would needlessly compromise either of them. Reverb still had no idea that Soundwave and Jazz were interconnected or of the saboteur’s true purpose and he wanted it to stay that way. In time, everything would be revealed.

But before that moment arrived, Soundwave needed to make sure everything was just right. He could leave nothing to chance. Ravage and the twins would make sure he didn’t step out of line, at least until Soundwave managed to find his way back to Uraya.

The first step in all of this was to make peace with the two bots responsible for Jazz’s mission by offering an explanation of where he’d been for the past decaorns.

“Traffic, difficult to navigate.” Soundwave said lamely, lifting his shoulders up and down in a slight shrug. It was a ridiculous excuse but he wasn’t too keen to indulge in the red mech’s antics.

Chromia laughed and Ironhide’s face twisted into a grimace. “Listen here, you outdated boombox. We’ve—.”

“Ironhide.” Soundwave stiffened when Optimus’ voice interrupted his former lieutenant but he was quick to recover and turned to face the newly arrived leader. The Prime’s optics are tired over the rim of his facemask and his gait lacks the dramatic flair he was known for when in public.

The red warrior is quick to stand upright, staff tapping on the ground as he put himself to full attention. “Prime.”

Chromia didn’t do much other than let her grin falter into a soft smile.

Optimus lifted a placating hand. “At ease, old friend.” His optics fell on Soundwave and the telepath remembered nothing but their previous encounter, one which ended with him punching the Prime in the face in a place of worship then storming out without so much as a word. Needless to say, they hadn’t ended on good terms.

“Soundwave,” Optimus said, nodding once in his direction. “I apologize for my tardiness.”

Chromia huffed. “Mech just got here too, Optimus. You didn’t keep him waiting that long.”

If Optimus was surprised by the revelation, he gave no indication and lead Soundwave into his office after convincing Ironhide that he’d be alright without his presence in the room. Everything was just the way Soundwave remembered and the only thing that was missing was Megatron himself.

“Megatron couldn’t be here today,” Optimus said, sitting at his desk and motioning for Soundwave to do the same. “He’s in New Vosian at the moment. Starscream’s been threatening to rescind from the Assembly and Megatron’s attempting to convince him not to.” He huffed, shaking his helm. “As you can see, I’ve been on my feet trying to keep everything in order, a task that hasn’t been easy.”

Soundwave frowned. But he didn’t even have the time to reply before Optimus was shuffling the datapads sprawled across the surface of his desk, movements terse and jerky. Even without teeking him, the telepath knew that the Prime was angry.

Frustrated, if the crease in between his optic ridges was anything to go by.

“Why are you here?” Optimus asked when he seemed comforted by the , voice low. “Last time I distinctly remember you punching me in the face, blaming me for the death of one of my closest friends.” Every word was said conversationally but his posture and face exuded an icy calmness that would have made the room frost over if possible.

Soundwave hadn’t known what to expect when he finally found himself in Optimus’ presence again. But the one thing he hadn’t anticipated was for the Prime to throw subtlety to the wind and begin drilling him for information right away.

“Information.” Soundwave replied honestly, following the Prime’s example. “Soundwave, requires an explanation.”

Optimus leaned back in his chair, arms folding over the windshield glass of his chest. “Is that so?”

“Affirmative.”

“Funny. Because the last time anybody had need of you, we were told by outside sources that you’d relocated. Disappeared without so much as a warning.” A pause. “It’s been about three decaorns, Soundwave. Would you mind telling me where you were?”

For a moment, Soundwave was tempted to apologize. For the odd way in which they’d left their last encounter and the disappearance that had everything to do with reasons Soundwave was unwilling to voice. But he remembered how Optimus had lied to his face, omitting a truth that could very well have prevented all of these problems in the first place and any remorse he felt was quickly overpowered by his own rationality. That wasn’t why he was here. Soundwave wasn’t sure whether Jazz had gotten word to Optimus about his involvement at the estate and if he lied now, chances were it’d somehow find a way to backfire once the gala came around.

Regardless of his personal feelings, the telepath was sure of one thing. He couldn’t afford to lie right now. Not with so much at stake.

“Soundwave is aware that Jazz is alive.”

Silence.

For a moment, Optimus was frozen, his optics wide. But then he blinked and sighed, glancing away. “I don’t know what you think you’ve heard...” A quick glimpse at Soundwave’s disbelieving glare quickly derailed another terrible attempt to lie and the Prime exhaled, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his noseplate.

“How long have you known?”

Soundwave answered immediately. “Two and a half decaorns.” He quickly added, “Jazz, is in Uraya. Undercover in Argyrus’ estate.”

Optimus’ chin tilted upwards, his arms tightening over his chest. “So, you know, do you?” His optics flashed. “How exactly?”

Soundwave had been mulling over his story for orns as he made his way back to Iacon and after joors rehearsing it in front of his symbionts, it came out almost as seamlessly as the truth. “Jazz, contacted Soundwave. Asked for assistance in a personal matter.”

“Jazz asked for help?” Optimus echoed, not even attempting to hide his incredulity. He frowned, his helm giving the tiniest shakes of disbelief. “What could drive him to ask _you_ for help?” It didn’t escape Soundwave’s notice that Optimus had neither confirmed nor denied that Jazz had been in contact with him though judging by his expressions, it seemed Jazz hadn’t sent any recent communications to anyone. If he had, Soundwave would be in stasis cuffs and being dragged down some dark cell to be interrogated.

Soundwave knew what he was about to do was the best choice of action. He wasn’t completely sure how Optimus would react but given that he’d been somewhat honorable and patient during the war, the telepath had hope his foolhardy plan would work. So he glanced down at his feet, rearranged them and looked up with what he hoped was a look of absolute serenity and honesty.

“Message requesting assistance, sent via personal comm. Jazz is carrying.”

It took a moment for the words to process in the Prime’s head but when they did, he blinked several times and stuttered before managing to ask Soundwave to repeat himself.

And the former communications officer did, though they both knew that the repetition of the revelation was unnecessary. Optimus had heard him, loud and clear. He just was having a hard time believing what he’d heard.

“ _Jazz_? My Jazz? As in the SpecOps commander that warned his own agents against using interfacing as a tactical weapon unless they’d undergone the necessary sterilization process?”

Soundwave nodded. “Affirmative.”

The chair Optimus had been sitting in squeaked as the Prime rose to his feet, sending it skidding a few feet back. He began to pace the length of his desk, one arm folded over his chest while the hand of the other pinched chin-edge of his facemask. “I don’t believe this.” He said, but he wasn’t talking to Soundwave. “I just can’t believe it.” Rounding on Soundwave, he fixed him with a stern glare. “You’re absolutely certain?”

“Direct contact was made.” Soundwave replied. “Jazz, offered verbal confirmation. Scans, corroborate his admission.”

That made Optimus pause and he placed both hands on the table as he leaned towards the telepath with a hopeful look in his optics. “He’s still alive?”

A terse nod was all Soundwave offered before the Prime was hanging his helm with an audible sigh of relief. “Thank Primus.” Glancing up in a way that was almost tentative, Optimus asked, “Did you make any recording of your rendezvous? Did he say anything that could be of use to us?”

Soundwave always recorded everything. He was no archivist but he’d learned that bots tended to believe his threats more when he had physical evidence of words they’d muttered in the safety of their own comfort zones and that habit had become a little hard to shake. Of course, Jazz had said many things during their last conversations, all of which would be enough to warrant them storming the estate and bringing in every single bot in for interrogation. Soundwave was still unsure exactly what Jazz thought he’d found out but even then, the recording held something else that would prove damning to everyone involved if Optimus ever caught wind of it.

The telepath was certain that if anyone found out that Jazz was carrying his creation, they’d all neglect the interrogation and go right for the kill.

So he shook his head, making sure his field pulsed with regret. “Negative. Rendezvous, brief and illicit. Information was unable to be obtained and we parted before cover was compromised.”

“Slag.” Optimus leaned back and pinched the bridge of his noseplate, as if he were fighting off one slag of a headache. “Is Jazz alright? I mean, the last time he contacted us, he only said that everything was going according to plan. But he dropped off the grid right after.” He narrowed his optics, blue depths flickering as he thought deeply. “Do you mean to tell me...that whatever happened to him, it resulted in his carrying condition?”

This was the one time Soundwave found himself comfortable enough to lie. “Affirmative. Jazz, raped by one of the estate’s lords. Did not retaliate for fear of breaking cover.” His hands curled slightly into fists as he recounted Reverb’s story, hating every single word as it left his mouth. “Jazz, chose to keep creation.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

As did everyone involved, apparently. Jazz had proven to be unpredictable, more so after their falling out in Tarn. Soundwave had expected Jazz to reveal his plans to terminate the creation, especially after he’d made his feelings on him painstakingly clear. Because it wasn’t loyalty or remorse keeping Jazz from ending the unborn spark’s life; Soundwave had yet to discover what was fueling the saboteur’s decision but like Optimus, he was coming to the conclusion that the saboteur either had one hell of a plan lying in wait or he was simply going mad.

He wasn’t sure which one made him feel worse.

“This complicates things,” Optimus finally said, taking a seat in his chair once more. He clasped his hands over the desk, fingers gripping each other so tight his knuckles were protruding. Glancing up, the Prime asked. “Where is he?”

“Jazz, still residing at the estate.”

A blue helm jerked back in surprise. “You left him behind?”

“Negative. Jazz, chose to remain behind.” Noticing Optimus’ tensing frame, he quickly added. “Jazz, unsuited for travel. Constant purges, frame aches and vertigo, make escape impossible.”

Those blue optics narrowed into white hot slits. “How did you get out, if you don’t mind me asking?”

He minded. A lot. But it wasn’t like he could voice that unease. “Soundwave, established position of interest at estate. Soundwave’s position, precarious. Positon, however, offers social mobility.” He paused. “Soundwave, decided to use personal freedom to relay news.”

Optimus looked torn. “And the mission?” He sounded bitter as he asked and Soundwave found himself sympathizing.

“Jazz, reported that no leads have been obtained.” Soundwave lied effortlessly. He still needed to get to the bottom of everything before bots from both chapters of his lives started going at each other without him having some notion of control over their interactions. “Mission, at a stalemate.”

Nodding, Optimus’ gaze never left Soundwave as he spoke, lingering even when the telepath had gone silent. There was no discerning what was going on inside his processor without a gross intrusion of privacy but Soundwave knew that whatever Optimus was thinking, it wasn’t going to bode well for anyone.

“The sire,” the Prime finally said and had Soundwave not been sitting upright, the stiffening of his spinal strut would have been all the more obvious. “Do you know who it is?” There was a dangerous growl to his tone, promising rage and fury to the mech that the telepath would name.

Soundwave then found himself in his own stalemate.

On one hand, telling the truth would get him an uncertain fate. But if he told Optimus of Argyrus’ hand in the situation, chances were that what Soundwave had been trying to prevent would come to fruition. “Sire, unknown. Jazz, refused to reveal their identity.”

“I see.” Optimus’ clasped hands raised up to rest against his lips, elbows resting on the edge of the desk. “Well, that’s fortunate for him. What exactly are Jazz’s plans? Does he have intentions on escaping?”

“Affirmative,” Soundwave said, voice careful.

“We should probably send somebody in to assist him, then.”

“Negative,” Soundwave said, shaking his own helm. “Soundwave, capable of accomplishing task. Situation, precarious. Jazz, trusts Soundwave. Soundwave, capable of bringing Jazz back to Iacon safely.”

It wasn’t a lie. Soundwave had every intention of making sure the saboteur found himself home. But on his own terms and conditions; the saboteur would no doubt be unhappy about this but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. There was far too much riding on the events proceeding as planned.

Optimus stared at him long and hard for a few moments, gauging and judging Soundwave. There was no doubt that he was having a hard time wrapping his mind around everything but given how Soundwave’s story corroborated with a lot of details that were supposedly top secret, it was easier to discern that the telepath was telling the truth.

He threw his hands up. “Fine. You have three decaorns. Keep in contact.”

Relief flooding through Soundwave, the telepath nodded. “Understood.”

They both rose from their seats when the door to the office opened and a slim mech sauntered in, a stack of datapads in hand.

Optimus’ optics lit up in recognition. “Hydrax.” He said, stepping around the desk and reaching out for the files. “Thank you so much for bringing these up.”

Hydrax smiled. “It’s no problem.” His wide blue optics turned to regard Soundwave and without any warning, one shuttered briefly in a wink.

Soundwave’s optic ridges furrowed in confusion, a spasm of unease sprouting in his chest. Optimus remained oblivious to the exchange, focusing now on quickly signing the datapads for the silver mech to take back. He was leaning down, stylus in one hand as the datapads lay on the surface of the table, and antennae flicking with each written glyph.

Hydrax shifted his weight from one foot to the other and that’s when Soundwave saw it. The mech looked utterly harmless as he leaned towards Optimus, one finger indicating where the Prime had to sign as he guided with him with a sweet tone of voice but the telepath knew better. He’d been the communications officer of the Decepticons. He knew when danger was just around the corner, when a bot’s intentions weren’t as pure as they made them out to be.

Every instinct of his was screaming, warning him of impending danger.

It took only an instant but Soundwave’s mind had barely registered the threat before he found himself moving. The silver mech was faster; with a flick of his hand, a small blade protruded from his wrist and he swung his arm up in an arc that caught the Prime’s neck cables and tore them with neat precision.

Blue and pink spurted all over the desk, covering the datapads and spraying on Soundwave as he leaped over the desk, tackled the silver mech and stopped him from delivering another blow. His large blue hands curled around thin arms and he gripped them tight enough to make the metal dent beneath his grip. Hydrax’s scream was cut off once they landed on the floor and Soundwave’s knee dug into his neck and silenced his vocalizer. He ejected Rumble and Frenzy, ordering them with quick databursts to see if Optimus was still alive. The two minibots pattered to the red and blue figure slouched over the desk and through them, Soundwave saw that Optimus had a hand pressed tightly against the slashed neck cables as he struggled to find a grip on the desk with his other to keep himself upright.

“I’m fine.” He said through gritted dentae, blue optics appreciative as he stared up at the twin symbionts offering him assistance atop the desk. “He just...slashed a few Energon and coolant lines. Nothing...too serious.”

Rumble and Frenzy helped him to his feet regardless and Soundwave, aware that Optimus was alright, glanced down at the pinned captive writhing underneath his weight. His mouth was moving, warbles of static escaping and his optics gleamed with far too much recognition for Soundwave’s tastes. Curious, he pulled a little bit of weight off his knee and through the sound of a sparking vocalizer, the mech’s broken voice somehow managed to sound through. The mech hissed softly, Energon dripping out the corner of his mouth. “Gift.”

Soundwave narrowed his optics, his red visor flashing dangerously.

Hydrax seemed unfazed. It seemed to spur him one, in fact. “Gift,” he wheezed, a laugh trickling into his tone. He stopped struggling and grinned, showcasing his broken dentae, stained with his life fluids. “Reverb...gift.”

The telepath felt like a cold bucket of coolant had been dropped on his head and let go of the mech’s broken arms and grabbed the collar flaring instead, lifting Hydrax’s head up to his level. “What did you say?” He asked lowly, a growl reverberating in his throat.

A loud crash sounded and the floor shook, prompting Soundwave to turn his attention to the Prime and his symbionts. Optimus was on the floor, frame trembling for a few moments before he began to convulse. Rumble and Frenzy were on either side of his head and they gasped simultaneously, optical bands rising up to stare at their host mech.

“Poison.” They said, yelping in surprise when Optimus’ paroxysms turned more violent. The Prime’s back arched off the floor, his fingers digging grooves into the floor and vocalizer spitting warbles of static that conveyed nothing but pain. Ironhide and Chromia banged on the door and with a dip of his helm, Soundwave ordered his symbionts to open the doors and let them in.

Hydrax laughed and Soundwave turned to look at him. Those blue optics shone with glee as they watched the Prime writhe in agony and he lifted one of his broken hands to showcase the blade still protruding from his wrist. Even without analyzing it, Soundwave knew it had been dipped in toxins.

Hydrax wheezed, coughing and spitting out Energon. “Reverb...said...you’d like...the gift.”

The telepath growled. “What?”

Soundwave didn’t get his answer. Within moments a pair of rough hands were pulling him away from the silver mech and Chromia skidded in from his periphery to slip the silver mech into stasis cuffs, being none too gentle in handling him.

“What happened?” Ironhide said, forcing Soundwave to his feet and whirling him around to face him. “What the slag happened?!”

“Poison.” Soundwave said frostily. “Hydrax, utilized poisoned blade on Optimus Prime.”

“It was all me!” Hydrax giggled, prompting everyone’s attention back to him. His arms and legs were broken so Chromia had her hands on his upper arms and was all but dragging him, his broken frame leaving streaks of pink and blue on the floor. “I killed the Prime! I did it!”

Rumble screamed. “Does anybody have a fragging medic on hand!?” He and his twin had their hands underneath Optimus’ helm, keeping it safe from slamming onto the floor with each seizure.

Within moments, white paneled bots with red marking on their shoulders stormed in and proceeded to work on the Prime.

“I’m taking him down to interrogation.” Chromia hissed, her grip on Hydrax’s arms tightening. Her blue optics narrowed. “This bastard is never going to see the light of day.”

“No!” Hydrax screamed, struggling as Chromia began to carry him off. Ironhide pulled Soundwave and himself to the side to give her room. “You can’t make me!” The silver mech’s optics focused on the red and blue mechs he passed by for a moment before he began to shake his helm vehemently. He opened his mouth and his glossa made a few jerky movements before something shiny could be seen being wrapped up in the flexible appendage. But nobody had time to say anything before Hydrax bit down on it and his entire helm exploded in a sticky array of shrapnel, processor bits and neural fluids.

Chromia stumbled back a few steps, hands over her optics. “What the frag was that?!”

Ironhide was silent for a moment, blue optics blank before he blinked and grimaced. “The slagger blew himself up.”

“But why?”

The red mech turned to look at Soundwave, blue optics cold as he roughly grabbed one of the telepath’s shoulders. “You. Did the slagger say anything when you caught him?” There was a hint of confrontation in his tone, one which Soundwave ignored.

“Negative.”

Ironhide looked at him disbelievingly for a moment before cursing, glancing over his shoulder to look at the medics. Optimus had stopped convulsing and was being loaded onto a stretcher, Rumble and Frenzy watching with looks of worry on their faces. Something in their posture seemed to resonate with Ironhide because he let go of Soundwave and stalked up to the head medic.

“Is he going to make it?”

“I’m not sure,” the medic said. “This poison is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. He’s stable and his Spark arrest has been brought under control but the toxin’s still in his systems and we’ll need to do a full systems flush before we can begin analyzing the effect it’s having on his frame.” He shook his helm. “I’ve reached out to some colleagues of mine and--”

“First Aid and Ratchet.” Ironhide said. “Call them.” He gave the room a quick glance before saying, “And keep this under wraps. The last thing we need is for word to get out that there’s been another attempt on the Prime’s life.”

“Understood.”

In moments, only Ironhide, Chromia and Soundwave were left, Hydrax’s exploded corpse still strewn on the floor. Rumble and Frenzy had gone back inside Soundwave’s docking chamber, their worry and surprise mingling with Soundwave’s own.

“This is a mess.” Ironhide growled, arms crossed over his chest.

“No kidding,” Chromia said, coming to stand beside the two bots. Her attention went to Soundwave and she subspaced a mesh cloth and offered it to him. Unlike her mate, she didn’t allow old rivalries to hinder her interactions. “Here. Clean yourself up.”

Soundwave took the cloth and mechanically began to wipe himself off, holding his ventilations when the sickly-sweet smell of the fluids invaded his olfactory senses. He wasn’t sure if the rolling of his tanks was due to the fact that it was Optimus’ lifeblood on him or because of what Hydrax had said.

A gift. Hydrax had called this...a gift. For him. From Reverb.

But that made absolutely no sense. Reverb had no idea he was in Iacon; only Rethelia had been made privy to his intentions to travel. Nobody knew he was here.

Unless...no, that wasn’t right. Rethelia had promised to keep everything discreet.

But no matter how hard Soundwave tried to reason through the situation, he always came back to that same conclusion. There was no grey area to hide in anymore. Someone had tried to kill Optimus and the assassin’s last words had been the name of a mech he considered a brother.

The connections were there. Plain as day. There was nothing to speculate.

Soundwave felt like the world was spinning and he closed his optics, centering himself. Ravage had been right, about everything.

Now all that was left was to hear what Reverb had to say and Soundwave, for the first time, found himself dreading being in the presence of the red host mech. But not because he feared for his safety.

Jazz was still back at the estate. So were Ravage and Lazerbeak and Buzzsaw. He still wasn’t sure of what was going on but he was sure of one thing.

He needed to get back to Uraya. And quickly.

 

~~~

 

Jazz shivered.

He’d been having chills ever since he’d woken up from his recharge and the feeling he’d had of being watched had yet to go away. He’d seen glimpses of ebony and red here and there in his peripheral so he assumed that Soundwave probably had his little minions keeping tabs on him. That was just fine. He was far too busy trying to win Aster’s favor to care.

He was going to that gala and nobody was deterring him from making it onto the list of intended couriers that Argyrus was planning on taking.

With one last wipe of the washrack walls, Jazz found himself finishing his final chore of the morning and he gathered up his tools and prepared to embark on the first and only break of the orn. It’d been a quiet orn for the most part, no sign of Crosswire or Soundwave to darken his mood, and he’d reveled in the peace of his mundane tasks. The bitlet was moving a lot more frequently and on occasion, Jazz would find himself stopping to listen as it attempted to send pulses through their newly discovered bond.

It was mostly just databursts of emotions. No words. But Jazz found himself charmed even when he sniffed and tried not to pay too much attention to it; the bitlet seemed not to be bothered too much by his dryness and so long as it received nourishment and care, it was fine.

His lower spinal strut was starting to hurt and Jazz planned on heading down to retrieve his rations and then maybe take a nice long trip to the washracks. If Ravage was clumsy enough to make herself seen again, maybe he’d call out to her and force her to massage his aching back.

Not that he wanted any of Soundwave’s little heathens (or Soundwave himself) anywhere near him. The more they kept their distance, the better.

The bitlet prodded at him questioningly at the mention of Soundwave and Jazz spent the whole trip down to the kitchens trying to convince himself and the bitlet that the telepath was not important. But the tiny form in Jazz’s gestation chamber wasn’t the creation of a former communications officer and SpecOps agent for nothing; it saw through his bluff and it’s prodding became more insistent.

Sire, it wanted its sire.

“Sire is gone.” Jazz whispered under his breath, patience waning. “So shut up about it.”

Jazz pursed his lips when he arrived at the kitchens, disappointed in seeing that it wasn’t empty like he’d been expecting. Aster’s schedule had him missing the servants’ usual fueling time so Jazz was left with scouting out for his own rations at his own time; usually that meant sneaking into the pantry and getting a cube without anyone noticing but his luck hadn’t been the best these past few orns.

The mech in the kitchen was the assistant of the bot in charge of preparing all the meals and he was a tall gangly thing that resembled a drone more than an actual mech. But any bot with a mouth and optics was one to be wary of so Jazz sauntered in and pretended like he’d been looking for him all this time.

“Hey!” He said, a little too cheerily.

The ebony mech narrowed his amethyst optics, hands pausing over his task. “What?”

So he wasn’t the sweet kind; that was just fine. “I need my rations.” Jazz said softly, making sure to cradle his expanded ventrum with his hands. “I just got off my morning chores and missed my fueling time.”

“Too bad.” The mech turned his back on the saboteur and continued crushing the crystals he was picking from a small bow next to him.

Jazz grimaced. “Hey, help a mech out here. My bitlet needs—”

“Get the mech his rations, Adeon.” The rich oily voice made both Jazz and the ebony mech pause, though Adeon was quick to bow in deep respect at the green mech standing behind the saboteur.

“Absolutely, Argyrus, sir.” Wiping his hands on a cloth, the mech scattered and Jazz was left alone with the last mech he wanted to be dealing with. A tiny part of him said it was better than Reverb but Argyrus was another mech that had good reason to hate him.

As far as he knew, Jazz was carrying his creation and though he’d made no attempts to contact him directly or end his life, the saboteur was still wary.

A polished hand came to rest on Jazz’s shoulder and the saboteur closed his optics behind his visor, ignoring every instinct that told him to grab those fingers digging into his armor and twist them until they broke and shattered under his grip.

“Apologies,” Argyrus said softly, brushing past Jazz to stand next to him. “Adeon can be a bit...dim.”

Jazz said nothing, gaze focused completely ahead.

The green mech’s scarlet optics narrowed and Jazz felt Argyrus turn that searing gaze upon him. The prickling along his ventrum left no doubt as to where his attention was being drawn.

A hum and then Argyrus was speaking again. “You’re advancing quickly.” He leaned a little way forward. “Very quickly.”

Jazz swallowed roughly. “Yes.” He didn’t bother adding the necessary honorific to the end of that sentence. The green mech didn’t deserve it.

“You’re angry.”

The saboteur nearly choked trying to hold back the snort he was itching to offer in reply to such an astute observation. Was the mech joking? What had he expected, that Jazz was going to swoon and thank him for his services? No, Argyrus deserved to be punched in the face. Hard. Preferably with enough force for his optics to shatter and that pretty little face to cave in.

Unfortunately, Jazz wasn’t in any position to offer such services. Maybe when he escaped and Argyrus and everyone under his estate’s roof was thrown into prison, he’d make a trip to his cell just for that purpose.

The hand on his shoulder was still there and it tightened by a fraction and for a brief moment, Jazz feared Argyrus was going to react negatively to Jazz’s cold reception. Worst case scenarios passed through his mind in an instant but the green mech didn’t do anything. His hand merely began to flex in a crude imitation of a massage and Jazz nearly groaned at how good it felt.

It sickened him.

“A mech in your state is not supposed to be doing such hard work.” Argryus said softly, almost as if he were talking to a lover and not the riffraff he’d knocked up. “You should be resting, being tended to by the best until your creation is ready to emerge.”

Well, no duh.

The hand’s ministrations paused and Jazz froze as it traced a seam down the length of his back, halting over his lower spinal struts. “You do realize that Reverb doesn’t want you to have this creation? That’s why he’s making you work so very hard.” Argyrus said, voice so low Jazz had to strain to hear him. A part of him wished he hadn’t because the fear in his chest was back and the bitlet was sending questioning pulses in turn.

“I don’t understand.” Jazz said meekly, hands clenching into fists at his side.

Argyrus smiled and his other hand reached over to grasp Jazz’s chin, tilting it up and to the side so he could stare into that pretty blue visor. “I don’t expect you to. The politics of lords is something a lowly servant such as yourself wouldn’t dream of understanding. But in laymen terms, your creation shares my CNA and as a result, it has a rightful claim to all of my inheritances. Reverb knows this and his plans depend on Radiance ensuring he gets all of my wealth. Your bitlet would ruin everything. He’s averse to getting his hands dirty, though, so he’s taken to making you overwork yourself into reabsorption.”

A moment of silence and then Argyrus chuckled once. “I can protect you, though.”

Jazz jerked away. “What?”

Something shone in Argyrus optics, reminding Jazz of the first time they’d met at Bluestreak’s bonding party. There was no care or affection in his scarlet gaze, merely the desire to control. And lust, of course, that seemed to be one of the few base emotions the green slagger seemed capable of projecting.

“I will happily claim that creation as my own.” Argyrus said simply. “If you agree to admit that its creation was consensual. And...if you come and share my berth.” The hand on his back flicked and Jazz shivered as the green mech’s fingers traced incoherent glyphs into his alloy. The grip on his chin loosened slightly and Jazz nearly purged upon feeling the green mech’s thumb begin to softly trace the contour of his lower lip.

The touch brought up unwanted memories and Jazz jerked his helm back, blue visor flashing. “Never.” He hissed, all semblance of control evaporating in the wake of the unwanted propositions.

Argyrus’ soft demeanor vanished as quickly as it appeared. “What did you say to me?” He asked, voice cold and promising violence. He took a step towards Jazz and the saboteur recoiled, his feet forcing him back.

“Do you have any notion of what I’m offering to you? Protection. Safety.” A green finger pointed at the saboteur’s lower torso. “The chance for that pathetic _thing_ to see the light of day. Without me, you’ll die. Your creation will die and it will all be your--!”

Jazz’s hand drew back and forth before his mind had even caught up to his intentions. Argyrus’ words were cut off midsentence as a black hand cracked across his face, forcing his entire helm to turn to the side. It wasn’t enough to break anything but as the shock wore off and Argyrus slowly turned to look at Jazz again, the saboteur caught sight of a trickle of Energon dribbling out of the corner of the green mech’s mouth.

His own hand hung suspended between them, palm aching from the impact.

_Oh scrap, what had he done?_

He didn’t have time to retaliate before Argyrus wrapped one hand over his mouth and used the other to drag him back out into the hallway again, slamming him against a wall and lifting him up until Jazz’s feet dangled uselessly in the air.

Self-preservation protocols flared to life and Jazz began to struggle in the mech’s hold, fingers instantly going for the mech’s wrists and pulling and scratching at any struts and wires they managed to brush across. He aimed a kick at Argyrus’ chest but the mech was bigger than Jazz and without his usual wartime modifications, Jazz had no strength nor armor to protect him in a close ranged fight. His ventrum was unguarded between them but Argyrus paid it no heed as he pressed against Jazz and used his entire body to effectively pin the mech’s flailing limbs against the cold alloy of the wall. Arms crushed to his chest, Jazz had no other protection keeping the green mech from his Spark.

A warning popped up on Jazz’s HUD, alerting him of a foreign pressure over his gestation chamber and a chill went through him, forcing him to a halt. He knew that if he struggled, Argyrus would only react more violently so his only choice was to remain still and pray for an opening.

“Reverb always was a soft mech when it came to killing younglings,” Argyrus hissed. “I told him waiting for you to overwork yourself was a pointless endeavor. So I guess it’s time that I take matters into my own hands.” He pulled back slightly and Jazz’s muffled gasp sounded between them as a warm hand lay over his ventrum, the soft touch didn’t fool the saboteur of the green mech’s true intentions and complete utter panic took hold of him completely.

He was going to die. His creation was going to die, right here, right now and Jazz couldn’t do anything to stop it.

Time seemed to slow as Argyrus dug his fingers into the sensitive alloy, the pressure and pain increasing with each passing second as the green mech attempted to dig his fingers right into the saboteur’s frame. Jazz could feel the bitlet howling in pain and confusion and he sent wordless apologies to it as he struggled. His limbs didn’t budge and no matter how much he screamed, Argyrus’ hand over his mouth made only muffled whimpers sound in the empty hallway, too weak for anyone to hear.

Jazz wished he’d never taken the mission. That he’d listened to Ratchet and stayed in Iacon. His creation would be safe right now and though the world would be on the verge of collapsing, Jazz wouldn’t be pinned helplessly against a wall as his creation’s cries rang in his audials with him powerless to do anything.

He closed his optics, preparing for one last final push but he hadn’t even tensed before a familiar yowl sounded and Jazz found the weight being thrown off him and his frame sliding down the wall. His legs were too weak to support him and he found himself falling forward but before his front hit the ground, something firm and lithe cushioned his fall and he opened his optics to see a familiar ebony color scheme underneath his arms. Turning his helm to the side, he saw Ravage and he didn’t fight the wave of relief that escaped him upon seeing her face.

“Rav...” He said weakly, allowing her to gently shoulder him into a sitting position against the wall.

She offered a reassuring purr. “It’s okay,” she said softly, forehead butting against his. “You’re safe.”

Jazz couldn’t even begin to express how good it felt to hear those words.

Argyrus let out a stream of curses and Jazz turned his helm to see the green mech rising to his pedes and batting at the red and yellow aerials that were circling around him and pecking and clawing at his frame. One particular swipe from Lazerbeak’s claws caught his optic and Argyrus yelled out a litany of curses as she tore at it with a vengence.

“Get these things away from me!”

Ravage growled, a low menacing sound that prompted Lazerbeak and Buzzsaw to retreat behind their eldest sibling.

“You!” Argyrus hissed, pointing a bloody finger at the feline. “I’ll have your head for this.”

The feline wasn’t at all deterred by his threat. “Get out of here.” She hissed and to the saboteur’s immense relief, Argyrus did just that. Left in silence, Jazz was finally able to focus on himself and he glanced down to see the distended plates and groves in his alloy with a pained grimace on his face.

Lazerbeak, who’d landed on Jazz’s knee, trilled softly.

“I’m okay,” Jazz said, offering her a weak smile. A quick internal scan told him he was okay; shaken, a little sore but he and his bitlet would survive. His arms subconsciously wrapped around his torso and he sent soothing pulses through the bond.

Buzzsaw huffed.

“You need to see a medic,” Ravage said sternly, shaking her helm and giving Jazz a few careful sniffs. “You don’t smell injured but you need to make sure your creation didn’t suffer any damage."

“I’m fine.” Jazz said, brushing her aside and trying to rise to his feet. His back was killing him but he powered through the pain until he was finally standing on his own; he swayed a little and Ravage leaned against his side to keep him from keeling over.

The saboteur rubbed at his face, focusing on slowing his ventilations. “Just a little shaken.”

“Just a little?” Ravage sighed. “You need to stop being so stubborn.”

Jazz dropped his hand and fixed her with a pointed look. “How would you know I’m stubborn?” He asked. “We’ve only just met.” It was a thinly veiled jab at what she’d said a while ago about how they shouldn’t be in contact with one another without good reason.

Ravage rolled her optics. “Soundwave left me behind to protect you.” She said. “I’m just doing my job.”

Jazz smiled but without any warmth. “Yeah, sure.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Pfft. As if I’m stupid enough to believe he cares much about me.” He said in reply; he tried to take a step and winced, coming to a brief halt. “He left you behind to make sure I don’t escape.”

Ravage was silent for a moment, then she sighed. “If you don’t want to go see a medic, you need to go get some rest. Soundwave’s room is--.”

“Definitely not fucking going there again.” Jazz said quickly.

“He isn’t there.” Ravage explained.

“Oh?” The saboteur turned to fix the feline with a curious glance. “Where is he?”

“Iacon.” Buzzsaw replied and his twin and Ravage let out simultaneous squawks of indignation. The yellow and black aerial flapped his wings defensively. That caught the saboteur’s interest and he grimaced, optics narrowing behind his visor.

“What’s he doing there?”

Seeing that the secret was finally out, Ravage let out a long sigh of defeat. “Saving your aft.” She said. “That’s all you need to know.”

“Ravage...”

Luckily for the feline, someone cleared their throat and all optics turned to regard the ebony mech standing in the doorway with three cubes of Energon in his arms. He refused to meet their optics but it was more out of spite than actual courtesy.

“I have your rations, servant.” Adeon said, stalking forward and all but throwing the cubes into Jazz’s arms. “Next time, make it in time for your rations.” With a curious look at the symbionts, he stalked off from the direction he came and the four of them were left in silence once more.

Lazerbeak sighed.

Jazz echoed her gesture, his grip on the cubes tightening. “Rav?”

“Yes?”

“Soundwave’s room.” Jazz said, voice icy. “Take me there.”

“For what?” The feline questioned, optics narrowing in suspicion.

“What else?” Jazz said innocently. “I just want to talk.”

 

~~~

 

Reverb was having a lovely orn.

He lounged in the balcony of his room, a plate of spicy Energon goodies balanced in one hand while he sucked on a red gummy with the other. The flavor was far too metallic for his tastes and the spiciness was barely even prevalent but the texture was to die for and he loved rolling the gummy with his glossa until it melted completely in his mouth.

The gummy in his hand had barely disappeared into his mouth when the door to the balustrade was slammed open and the smell of fresh Energon ruined his flavorful experience, forcing him to swallow the sweet quickly and glance over his shoulder at the intruder.

He raised an optic ridge. “Argyrus?”

The green mech was littered with scratches, his face was bleeding and he had an Energon caked hand covering his optic. There were telltale grey paint transfers on his front chassis and immediately the red host mech suppressed the urge to sigh, all surprise and worry being replaced by exasperation.

“I want you to kill him.” The green representative hissed, shaking and huffing as if he’d escaped the depths of the Pit. “Kill him _now_.”

Setting his sweets down, Reverb rose to his feet. “Who, Argy? Be specific. You’re wearing the color transfers that match over half of the household staff in this place.” There was a playful tone to his voice, as if he were speaking of something greatly amusing.

Argyrus grimaced. “Meister.”

_Ah._

Reverb chuckled. “The poor mech can’t even walk right without wobbling like a newborn turbofox,” the red mech retorted. He placed one hand on his hip, tilting it to the side. “What did he do? Did he look at you funny again?”

“This isn’t a joke,” Argyrus seethed, both hands falling to his side and clenching into fists. Now, Reverb could see that his normally scarlet optic was but a jumble of shattered crystal and dried Energon, an ugly fresh welt vertically traversing it. Certainly not a pretty sight but the red host mech wasn’t at all daunted by the gore; he walked right up to the green mech, grabbed his chin with one hand and moved it to and fro as he observed the injuries.

Tutting, he let go and shook his helm. “Those don’t look like they were made by a mech.” He stated simply.

“Of course not! It’s those blasted birds.”

Reverb hummed. “Birds?”

“Aerials. Whatever you fragging call them. They attacked me.”

“Now, Argyrus. I’m afraid I don’t follow. Why do you want me to kill Meister when your injuries were created by tiny little aerials? Did one of them hit you in the processor while they were busy clawing out your optic?”

Argyrus growled. “I was putting the slave in his place when those two winged menaces attacked me. That cat was in on it too and she threatened to have me murdered in my berth.”

The red host mech’s lips pursed thoughtfully. “Ravage is her name. Quite the clever little feline that one though her loyalties are a bit skewed.” He paused, then asked. “You said they were protecting him?”

Argyrus nodded.

“Oh.” Strong red arms crossed over the plexiglass of his docking chamber and Reverb tilted his helm to one side, pacing slowly in place. “Now that’s interesting.”

“I told you bringing that Decepticon here would be a mistake. I told you! But you never fragging listen!” Argyrus kicked at one of the ornaments lining the balcony, sending it skidding across the tiny space and crashing into the metal railing. Reverb watched with a neutral expression, the only movement being the subtle twitch of his mouth’s corners.

“You underestimate Soundwave’s capacity for loyalty,” the red host mech said after a moment of silence. He walked towards the shattered ornament and rifled lazily through the debris with the tip of his foot. “He’ll come around.”

“You’re too wrapped up in the past to notice that he’s going to be your slagging downfall.” Argyrus whispered, vocalizer fritzing.

The sound of yet another door being slammed is what prompted Reverb to glance back at the green mech, half expecting him to be tearing down the door in his fitful anger but he hadn’t even opened his mouth to retort before a flash of blue flashed before his optics and his back collided forcefully with the railing, forcing the air from his vents with a rather dramatic gasp as someone kept in place and very nearly bending him backwards in half.

Strong blue hands wrapped around his throat and once he regained his bearings, Reverb smiled upon seeing the familiar red visor and white battlemask looming in front of his face.

“Soundwave.” He breathed, wincing slightly when the hands around his neck tightened. “How— _urk_ —lovely to see you, again.”

The blue host mech’s engine growled menacingly. From the corner of his optic, Reverb saw Argyrus take an uneasy step back, pain forgotten as his usual cowardice returned. Soundwave didn’t even spare the green mech a glance.

Reverb was seeing stars but still managed to smile in the face of the blue host mech’s mounting fury. “I take it you received my— _ack_ —gift?”

“That was no gift.” Soundwave hissed, all traces of his modulated voice absent. There was only his natural harmonics, laced with static and the occasional garble, sounding like absolute music to the red mech’s audials. He held no amorous feelings towards the blue mech, it was all camaraderie between them, but damn him if seeing this side to the once painfully shy mech didn’t make his Spark stutter and his kneebolts feel weak.

Curling his fingers against Soundwave’s, Reverb managed to pry them off his neck cables just enough so the Energon flowed and his vocalizer wasn’t being continuously crushed. “It was a gift,” Reverb said. “It’s an opportunity!”

Soundwave hissed, shaking the red mech once in barely restrained fury. “You tried to kill the Prime. Right in front of me.” His red visor flashed menacingly. “I should kill you for that.”

 _“Do it!”_ Reverb suddenly screamed, letting go of Soundwave’s hands and spreading his arms in surrender. “Do it, then. Go on! You’re strong enough; crush my neck in your grip, rip my helm from my shoulders and toss my frame over the edge. The fall should do the rest.”

Soundwave’s grip tightened and for a moment, Argyrus half-expected that scenario to unfold right before his optics. No fear shone in Reverb’s visor and the green mech couldn’t help but think what a ridiculously daring fool he was. But to Argyrus’ aghast and Reverb’s expectation, Soundwave stiffened for a moment before his hands fell from the red mech’s neck and he pushed himself hastily away with a barely suppressed growl.

Reverb grinned, hands falling to the railing as he hoisted himself up from his precarious position. His spinal strut gave a small painful sounding pop but he paid it no heed, rolling a shoulder joint to ease out the tension.

“I knew you cared.” He said softly, staring at his blue counterpart.

Soundwave glanced away. “What the slag are you trying to do?” He whispered, voice shaking with a mixture of anger and desperation. “What are you planning, Reverb?”

“The future,” the red mech said. “The one your sire always talked about when we were younglings. A place where all mechs can live in peace. You remember, don’t you?”

Soundwave winced, the words painfully familiar. For a second, he was on the streets again and the idealistic words of Megatron the gladiator were ringing in his audials, painting a pretty picture of a world that promised more than reality could ever offer. Once upon a time, Soundwave would have been drawn to that. Spoken with the voice of a mech he cared about deeply, he wouldn’t have thought twice before adhering himself to Reverb’s quest, consequences be damned.

But times were different. Soundwave had gone to war for those same ideals, lost and suffered much, and found himself betrayed in the end by the one mech he’d dedicated is life to.

Megatron hadn’t physically hurt any of his men. He’d never abused those he commanded with his own hands or words; apart from Starscream, that is but that was something Soundwave had never been too keen to explore. He never bribed them with false promises or heartfelt speeches; he let them know when they were going to die, when their sacrifices would mean little and when death proved a necessity for progress and change.

Soundwave had been inspired to follow him for that very reason. That selfless honesty, that brutal realism.

But without so much as a warning, Megatron had ended the war. He’d made reconciliations with the enemy. And it hadn’t been because he wanted peace for his men or he’d discovered that the extinction of their race was creeping up on them with each orn spent fighting.

Megatron had ended the war because his Spark had contracted a form of entropy, a viral infection of Autobot nature that could only be cured by a medic that held the necessary codes. Optimus had offered the cure in return for surrender.

And Megatron had agreed without so much as a second thought. In that moment, all those lives that had fallen in his name, for the glory of the Decepticon cause, and that vision of a future he’d painted...had meant nothing. And Megatron hadn’t cared.

His Spark twisting in his chest, Soundwave glanced at the red mech standing before him and he grimaced upon seeing that same passionate glimmer in his visor.

“A perfect utopia—doesn’t exist.” His long-ago damaged vocalizer cut out in the middle of the sentence and he winced, one hand reaching up to rub his intakes. “Your dream...unrealistic.”

Reverb huffed. “You mistake my ambition for naivety, my friend. My goal isn’t to create a utopia; I’m not stupid.” He shook his head. “My goal is to create a government that isn’t tainted by the past. You have veterans and the leaders of the old war heralding out planet’s reconstruction. Their paradigms and fears put up barriers towards innovation and set up a foundation for an infrastructure that’s no different than what the old Senate had in place.”

Voice softening, he held out his hands towards the blue mech. “Tell me something, Soundwave. If you were really happy...then why bother getting into contact with me in the first place? Why bother coming here?” His lips pursed and a hand placed itself over his xhest, directly over his Spark. “Why not report me? Tell your contacts in Iacon what I’ve done instead of coming back to confront me?”

A moment of silence and then Reverb said, “Unless...I’m not the reason why you came here?"

Soundwave recoiled at the sickly-sweet tone and Reverb scoffed mirthfully as he caught sight of the reaction. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. I know you came here for me.” A pause. “Though I know I’m not the only reason you’re staying, is it?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Soundwave said stiffly.

“ _Bullscrap_.” Argyrus hissed but he flinched when the host mech’s red visor spared him the first glance since he’d stormed into the scene. Soundwave’s visor flickered questioningly when he noticed that the green mech’s appearance was completely atrocious; but despite the gore and injuries, his attention zeroed in on the dark grey paint transfers on his chest.

“Oh, stop it, you.” Reverb said, stepping up to Soundwave’s side. “You’re just mad that a couple of little birds got the best of you.”

Soundwave stiffened. “Birds?”

Reverb’s visor brightened. “Yes. It would appear that your little aerials and feline have done a fantastic job at keeping that little servant you fancy safe. Argy here was in the middle of putting the mech in his place after a little insubordination and they tore out his optic in return. I’d normally find such behavior appalling but it’s quite...amusing in this scenario.” He glanced at Soundwave and gave him a nudge with his elbow. “You never told me you had a fancy for someone’s leftovers. The mech may have a pretty face but his figure is absolutely atrocious. And with that accent of his, I’m surprised you’d find him to be a good conversationalist.”

Argyrus spat. “A good conversationalist? Pfft.” He waved a hand. “Please. We all know why anyone even bother’s keeping that bot around.”

Soundwave’s hands curled into fists but Argyrus didn’t seem to notice and he kept talking.

“—He’s the resident pleasurebot. Scare him enough and he’ll open his legs up for anyone. My retainer has told me stories about him and trust me, the things he’s allowed others to do to him...I’m surprised he didn’t get sparked up sooner.”

Reverb laughed. “Careful, Argyrus.”

“What?” The green mech challenged, high on false bravado. His scarlet optics focused on Soundwave. “What’s _he_ going to do? Hit me? Over a fragging little pleasurebot?”

Soundwave wanted more than to do just that. But a quick mental nudge from Rumble and Frenzy told him that Reverb was looking at him curiously, analyzing every movement of his with a dangerous smile on his face.

It was then that that telepath realized that he was backed up into a corner. If he retaliated and defended the saboteur’s honor, Reverb would grow suspicious and what was being interpreted as a harmless sexual arrangement would be seen for something much more intimate and dangerous. But if he let the bots talk and laugh, poking fun at the mech that was the current carrier of his creation, then he’d be exactly what Jazz had said he was.

He swallowed roughly, optics briefly shuttering as he felt the telltale tingles of an incoming processor ache in the back of his helm. He knew what he had to do and though it made his Spark twist guiltily, he understood that he had little choice. His priorities had shifted and it was clear that every choice he made from now henceforth had to be carefully calculated.

So, with a heavy Spark, he shook his helm in Argyrus’ direction. “Negative.”

“Told you.” Argyrus told Reverb, wincing and reaching up to cup his optic. “Slag, this hurts.”

“Next time try not to get mixed up in things that don’t concern you,” Reverb chided. “Be lucky they didn’t go for your Spark."

Eventually the green mech made his exit and Reverb and Soundwave were left on their own on the messy balcony, broken ornaments and bent railing surrounding them. The red mech reached up to massage his intakes and he let out a small cough.

“I apologize for not informing you of our plans sooner,” Reverb said. “But you must understand there was no other way.”

“Reverb, forgiven.” Soundwave said, hating how the words rang with true sentimentality despite everything he’d been forced to witness. The smell of Optimus’ Energon was engrained into his memory and he suppressed a shiver at the recollection of the Prime’s convulsing form lying prone on the floor of his office. As much as he hated to admit, Optimus was perhaps the only mech that held what was left of Soundwave’s respect and Jazz’s love for his old comrades was the only thing keeping him tethered to whatever remained of his old life.

Reverb stood on the threshold of a revolution that would threaten everything the saboteur held dear and though some of Soundwave’s loyalties lay with him, the majority now resided with Jazz. It was a precarious middle ground, one that the blue host mech had never expected to find himself in. But here he was.

Despite the seemingly hopelessness of the situation, Soundwave didn’t find himself cowed. He’d faced worse during the war; with much more at stake, he was completely focused on finding a solution that would allow for a balance to be achieved. He’d find a way to guide Reverb away from the fall Megatron had gone through, somehow, someway.

And in the process, Soundwave would find a way to preserve the life that Jazz longed to go back to. Their creation would not find itself a causality nor would it emerge into a world once again at war.

Peace was somewhere on the horizon.

Soundwave just had to fight for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it looks like updates are gonna be a tad bit slower than usual. My little vacation after finishing up my degree is gone and I need to find work, which is proving to be rather difficult as of late. I got a few debts I need to take care of too so I might just open up a Ko-Fi/Patreon and offer up brief writing and drawing commissions to help me a bit on that end. 
> 
> This story isn't going to go on a hiatus or anything unless absolutely necessary and if it does, I'll be sure to let you guys know.
> 
> For now, enjoy this long chapter that was about a 30ish page document. :D


	23. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fool me once, fool me twice.

_Celebrate the mountain, shivering and unprepared and desperate for decay_  
_Now that you're here love, don't you feel somehow undone?_  
 _...your body...misunderstandings of love.”_

_\--‘Family Tree’, Dry The River_

Soundwave didn’t know what to expect when he came back to his chambers.

He knew that Jazz was there, of course, the quantum bond having made him privy to everything that had transpired during his absence. Lazerbeak had trilled her and her twin’s heroics when he made his way back from Reverb’s chambers, muffled by Ravage’s impatient scolding and her own influx of condensed information from her side of the bond.

It made the telepath feel relieved to know they were all safe and when he finally managed to open the door to his room, he felt as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Jazz sat on the edge of the berth with Lazerbeak perched on one arm, a finger crooked to rub the aerial just beneath her beak in the way she absolutely adored. Buzzsaw stood on the back of the recliner in the corner of the room, asleep but senses alert and he blinked himself into lucidity with the sound of the opening door.

Ravage loitered near Jazz’s feet, tail swishing as she watched the saboteur’s friendly ministrations. She flicked at ear towards the host mech when he entered, that and Jazz’s carefully lifted glance being the only welcomes he received.

“Soundwave,” Jazz said, neutral voice breaking through the brief moment of awkward silence that greeted his arrival.

The telepath dipped his helm in acknowledgement but he paused when his gaze went to the green paint transfers literally the saboteur’s front. He only paused for a nanoklik before his feet began to move on their own and he suddenly found himself standing mere feet away from the dark grey mech.

To his relief, Jazz didn’t seem threatened by his approach but neither did he seem particular pleased by the newfound proximity they found themselves in. He gave Lazerbeak’s chin one last scratch before gesturing for her to perch on the berth, freeing up both arms and clasping his hands tightly in his lap.

“I heard you went to Iacon,” Jazz said softly, blue visor unreadable as it traced over the telepath’s frame. His gaze rested on Soundwave’s face. “Mind telling me what you were doing there?”

Soundwave stiffened. “Negative.”

Jazz’s engine gave a small growl of displeasure. “There’s no point in hiding it, Soundwave. If you want me to trust you...you’ve got to be honest with me.”

The telepath’s helm jerked back slightly in surprise. “Trust?” To hear the saboteur mention the possibility of earning such a thing was enough to make him rethink everything he’d been planning on his way here.

Jazz shifted uncomfortably on the berth but his gaze never faltered. “Yeah.” There was a sad note of defeat in his tone and Lazerbeak trilled, hopping to rest her beak on Jazz’s arm. Though the saboteur said nothing, his field flickered briefly with appreciation for the small gesture.

Soundwave took a moment to realize that the saboteur was accepting his symbiont’s touches and closeness much better than when they’d been reunited. Back then, Jazz hadn’t even wanted to look at them. Now, he seemed to be reveling in their proximity and Soundwave knew the reason why.

His tanks churned and he suddenly regretted letting Argyrus run free without some due punishment first. Quickly, he brushed those thoughts aside and knelt down on one knee, bringing himself to Jazz’s level.

It was easier for Soundwave to look at him and for a brief moment, the telepath allowed himself the opportunity to truly look at the mech sitting before him. Jazz’s entire frame had been remodeled, no trace of the strong warframe Soundwave had grown accustomed to over the eons, but his faceplates were the same. There was that familiar strong curve to his jaw, those creases near the corner of his mouth that were reminiscent of those bright grins he’d always sported. And his visor was that same blue hue, the one that reminded Soundwave of the sky back on Earth, capable of great warmth one moment and then deep turmoil another.

His fingers itched with the desire to trace a finger down the seams of his face, to feel the smooth derma of his lips and cheeks but Soundwave knew such actions would be unwelcome so he clenched his fist and deleted those desires from his coding.

Jazz seemed privy to his intentions because he scoffed derisively and shook his head. “Thinking about kissing me, Sounders?” The words held acid but the sabotuer’s tone was surprisingly gentle, his helm tilting to one side.

Soundwave knew better than to lie. “Negative. Soundwave, merely admiring Jazz.”

“There’s not much to admire,” Jazz said, shrugging. “Unless you’ve got a thing for neutral colors and basic frame-types.”

Ravage’s surprise was the first thing Soundwave registered.

A joke.

Jazz had made _a joke_.

Granted, it was a pale imitation of the saboteur’s usual repertoire but the attempt itself spoke volumes.

Soundwave tried to not read too much into it but it was difficult not to. Every single one of their recent encounters had been filled with anger and hate; for once, those emotions seemed to be absent, if not abated.

He smiled behind his mask, careful to keep his field under careful control. “Negative,” he said, shaking his helm. The look Jazz gave him was unreadable but for the first time in a long while, at the very least that blue visor didn’t carry the same cold apathy that it did before.

Sighing, Jazz broke their eye contact and glanced down at Ravage, offering a finger and smiling when she bopped it with her nose. “I’m assuming,” he began softly. “That you spoke with a couple bots in Iacon. And judging by the red paint transfers on your hands, you probably have a very good idea of what’s going on here. And why I’m undercover.”

The telepath grimaced. “Affirmative. Soundwave, spoke with Optimus.”

Jazz stiffened minutely and when he glanced up to look at Soundwave, there were traces of fear in his EM field. “I see. And what did you tell him?”

“Soundwave, informed Optimus of Jazz’s...condition.”

The saboteur huffed. “Seeing how you’re still here, I assume you didn’t tell him the truth, did you? About you and Reverb?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “About us?”

Soundwave shook his head.

Jazz shrugged. “So, you lied.” Before Soundwave could defend himself, the saboteur let out a dry chuckle. “Not that I could blame you. I probably would’ve lied myself too if I were in your place.”

All of Soundwave’s symbionts were echoing his confusion. Rumble and Frenzy were warier than their siblings, finding his soft words and non-confrontational demeanor vexing but Lazerbeak showed them clips of Argyrus’ attack, of the way Jazz had been so defenseless and weakened, and the immense relief he’d shown when they’d arrived to his rescue.

Jazz wasn’t surrending himself to them nor was he playing them. He’d come to an understanding that he wasn’t physically capable of protecting himself or his bitlet anymore and the time had come to seek help elsewhere. In a sense, the assistance of the aerials and Ravage against Argyrus had been a tick in their favor and Jazz was attempting to build a bridge of trust. For the sake of the bitlet if nothing else.

A brief touch on Soundwave’s hand brought him out of his musings and he glanced down to see Jazz’s hand on his, fingertips just barley hovering over the back of his palm. Looking up, the saboteur’s gaze was a fiery thing, hard and demanding.

“Argyrus told me Reverb wanted to kill my bitlet,” Jazz said, analyzing the telepath’s reaction with each word. “The crazy schedules, the missed rations. He wanted me to overwork myself in reabsorption. And Argyrus told me that the only I could prevent that was to claim the creation had been made willingly, that it was his and to share his berth like I’m nothing more than some common riffraff.” His fingers pressed into the dark blue metal underneath, digging in with a ferocity that made a few errors pop up on the telepath’s HUD. Soundwave dismissed them and listened, absorbing in every word, every uttered revelation and emotional weight it carried.

Jazz’s lips pursed. “I need to know, before we even begin to talk about the future, about our present situation.”

His free hand went up to his ventrum, curling around the visible bulge with a reverence Soundwave couldn’t help but notice.

“I know you don’t care about the bitlet. I know that it’s conception is probably the last thing you wanna remember at the moment and that if you had another chance to start again, you’d probably choose somebody else to saddle with this. But...it’s yours. And I need to know, need you to be honest with me, if you’re going to do everything in your power to keep her safe. From Argyrus, from Reverb...from your own loyalty coding. I need you to promise me you’ll help me make sure she survives whatever comes next."

Silence met his words and for a moment, everyone except the saboteur was stunned into speechlessness. Rumble and Frenzy shared a look of incredulity and Lazerbeak was torn between letting her host mech speak and jumping in to offer reassurances. Ravage narrowed her optics, wavering her gaze between the two bots with an annoyed flick of her ear.

Eventually, Soundwave found his voice and it proved difficult to answer coherently without letting his EM field broadcast the jumble of emotions boiling up inside him. But he somehow managed to find a way. Carefully placing his other hand over the saboteur’s, Soundwave shook his helm.

“Negative.” He quickly added, “Creation, not unwanted. Circumstances, conflicting but not undesirable.” Immediately, the band of light across Jazz’s visor dimmed into a thin line across the glass and the telepath knew that had been a poor vocabulary choice. But he didn’t waver; there was still so much to be said. It was difficult to condense his emotions into a few spoken words and perhaps the saboteur would never understand, wouldn’t fully believe that he said. But Soundwave knew he had to at least try.

“Jazz’s safety, paramount. Creation, will be kept safe. By symbionts, by Soundwave.” It was a clumsy endeavor to reassure but Soundwave could tell that it did the job; Jazz’s hand relaxed in his grip and he let out an audible sigh.

“You promise?”

Briefly, Soundwave was reminded of another time the saboteur spoke those words and his Spark clenched with nostalgia. But he nodded once, field extending to showcase his sincerity.

Jazz surprised him by gripping his arm, hand slipping out between Soundwave’s to grab at the white metal of his forearm. With a force that surprised, Jazz pulled him forward, bringing their faces so close together that their forehelms almost touched.

A small transformation sounded and then the blue visor was retracted.

Rescinding his own optical band and facemask was almost instinctual.

Finally, there was nothing standing between them, no visors, no facemasks, no walls and social hierarchies for them to hide behind. Jazz’s optics roved over Soundwave’s features, a brief flicker of softness in his gaze before they shuttered on focused on the telepath’s golden ones with cold resolution.

Soundwave hesitated, optics trained on Jazz’s pursed lips for a brief moment before skirting up to meet those bright azure pools that had always been hidden behind a visor. They were narrowed slightly, meeting his own with a small bit of disdain.

“Thinking about kissing me, Sounders?” He asked sweetly, making a show of giving his lips a quick lick. “My lips aren’t that soft. And the Energon I’ve been drinking isn’t very tasty...but you could probably taste a bit of Odeon if you really tried. He’s very sweet.” The last bit was a veiled attempt to rile the telepath but Soundwave didn’t allow himself to fall so easily.

“Odeon, inferior.” He said determinedly. “Soundwave, superior.”

The familiar words made the saboteur’s lips twitch with amusement. “At many things. But remember that between us, the kill count’s in my favor.” The grip on Soundwave tightened and the threat was made all too clear.

Soundwave nodded in affirmation. “Understood.”

“Good.” Jazz pulled back, blue visor snapping back into place. “At least that’s out of the way."

Ravage let out an amused huff.

“So,” Jazz’s smile fell and he crossed his arms over his chest. “What’s the plan?”

Any amusement evaporated with those words.

“You’re incorrigible.” Ravage said, shaking her helm but her optics went to her host mech. Soundwave spared her a brief glance.

“Plan, under construction.”

Jazz grimaced. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re running a little low on time.”

Soundwave asked, “Time?”

Jazz rolled his optics. “The gala,” he said forcefully. “The one taking place at Optimus and Megatron’s place? Yeah, you need to get me there.”

“Why?”

Jazz replied, “Why else? I need to get back to Iacon.” He gestured down at his lower torso. “My bitlet isn’t going to emerge in this estate. They’ll kill her and I’ll be damned before that happens.”

Soundwave leaned forward, entranced. “Her?” It wasn’t until now he’d caught wind of the pronoun. The saboteur hesitated, glancing away.

“It’s a femme.” He said lowly, though he didn’t sound quite so sure himself.

“Jazz knows this, how?”

“She...talks to me. Bits and pieces but enough to get the general idea.” He waved a hand tiredly through the air. “Don’t try to change the subject. Gala. That’s the priority now.”

Soundwave opened his mouth to retort but a stern look from the saboteur forced him to clamp his lips shut and give a terse nod of acknowledgement, facemask and visor sliding silently back into place. “State intentions.” He said, monotone voice terse.

The saboteur was silent for a few seconds, gauging his reactions and he scoffed derisively. “I’m going back to tell them that we’ve got a crazy representative and a homicidal wannabe tyrant filling former Bots and Cons’ heads with false ideologies. I’m going to tell Optimus the truth.”

At the mention of the Prime, Soundwave felt himself tensing and unfortunately for him, Jazz’s perceptive skills were astute as ever. Narrowing his optics, the saboteur leaned in.

“What’s wrong?"

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

Soundwave knew better than to reveal the events of the past few orns so he leaned his own helm back and rose to his pedes. There was a lot to take in, plenty of things to be discussed but Soundwave was tired. He still smelled the Energon on his frame and know that the adrenaline of making it back to his symbionts and Jazz had worn off, the ache in his struts was now becoming unbearable.

He needed a trip to the washracks, some Energon...and a moment or two to simply think. Jazz too required the same; despite his strong demeanor, his frame was shaking from exertion and the dents in his frame needed to be dealt with. And the paint transfers; Soundwave would feel a whole lot better when the saboteur’s frame wasn’t being marred by someone else’s paint nanites.

“Rest,” he said firmly. “Then we will talk.”

Jazz gaped up at him, then his visor blinked and his upper lip curled in the start of a sneer. “Don’t you dare shut me out, Soundwave. We need to talk about this now!"

“Negative.” Soundwave said forcefully, a bit of his former authority seeping into his tone. The saboteur’s influence was waning and it was about time he was reminded that the one in need of assistance wasn’t Soundwave. “Jazz, must rest first.”

“If you think I’m leaving without an explanation—.”

Soundwave lifted a hand, effectively cutting him off. “Jazz, will not leave. Jazz, will recharge here.”

Jazz was now truly speechless. He glanced around the room, visor flaring white with surprise before it darkened with anger once it rested on the telepath once more. “You’re insane.”

“Am I?” Soundwave said, his fatigue dragging him away from his usual curt syntax.

“Nobody can see us together. What part of that don’t you understand? If anybody catches me sleeping in here, they’ll think we’re--!”

“That is the objective.” Soundwave replied, ignoring the look the saboteur threw his way for interrupting. “Reverb, Argyrus, both suspect a relationship is occurring between you and I. This arrangement, ensures your safety.”

“They think I’m fragging you?” It was almost amusing how quickly Jazz’s mind went to that particular little detail.

“Negative. They suspect _I_ am fragging _you_.”

Jazz bristled at the wording, his hands curling into fists. “Why?” He spat out through gritted dentae. “Why the hell would you want that?”

Soundwave wanted to tell the saboteur the truth. But he knew that if Jazz was made aware of the fact that even a sliver of emotional attachment remained between them, he’d no doubt attempt to manipulate it to get his freedom. It wasn’t that he was a bad bot, but it was what he had been hardwired to do in situations like these. Soundwave didn’t trust himself enough to combat the mech’s schemes.

So, all that was left was to keep things curt and professional between them. At least until a viable plan panned out. “No bot will harm you if they think you are with me.”

Jazz stared at him long and hard for a moment and as Soundwave watched, he swore he saw a flicker of something else beneath the hate and the distrust lingering in that blue abyss. But it disappeared almost as quickly as it’d appeared.

“I’m not going to recharge in the same berth with you,” Jazz said icily after a few tense moments of silence passed. “So don’t you dare make that part of the arrangement.”

Soundwave lifted his hands in surrender. “Negative. Jazz, will take the berth. Soundwave, will recharge on the recliner.”

Jazz turned to look at the piece of furniture in question, lips pursing as he silently judged the distance between it and the berth. Something, Soundwave guessed the fact that the chair looked mightily uncomfortable, eventually satisfied him because he gave a small huff and folded his arms over his chassis. “Guess I have no choice in the matter, do I?”

“Negative.”

“Whatever, then.” Jazz said, shoulders rising and falling in a brusque shrug. Glancing down at his frame, he grimaced and made a move to rise to his feet. Something creaked and he froze, visor flashing briefly before he clenched his jaw and eventually managed to rise to his full height. “I call the washracks first.”

Soundwave didn’t like the way his face pinched with each movement. “Jazz, needs to seek medical assistance.”

The ripple of shock and anger in the saboteur’s field was enough to make the telepath freeze but he remained outwardly stoic in the face of it. “Are you calling me an invalid?” Jazz hissed.

The telepath frowned. Of course he hadn’t. “Jazz, suffered injuries during attack. Creation, needs to be monitored. Suggestion, seek Jespa in the morning.”

“I don’t need you to tell me how to take care of my creation.” Jazz grumbled, though a hand rose to rub soothingly at a dent on his shoulder. “I’ve been doing just fine on my own...” His voice dropped to a murmur, clearly suffering from both his words and company. “...so stop pretending like you care.”

He did care. Jazz, perhaps, would never truly understand just how deep his emotions ran but Soundwave had recently made peace with that reality. If the saboteur didn’t want him to be involved in his life or that of the bitlet, Soundwave could understand that. But that didn’t mean he’d turn his back on either of them. At the moment, Jazz suspected that all of Soundwave’s actions were being fueled by his desire to keep his involvement with Reverb a secret from the bots back in Iacon and in a way, he was right.

But Soundwave wasn’t as Sparkless as Jazz set out to portray him. The creation, for all intents and purposes, was innocent. And she was his, even if Jazz refused to officially name him as the sire. Soundwave knew that it was his responsibility to make sure they both saw whatever came to be through. And that was so much more than his activated creator protocols talking.

Jazz accepted Lazerbeak’s company when he made his way into the washracks, claiming that she was an excellent conversationalist before disappearing into the adjacent room without so much as a backward glance.

The telepath let out a deep exvent of relief, one which was echoed by the rest of his assembled symbionts.

“Wow...” Frenzy said once Soundwave ejected him and his twin from his docking chamber. Both twins sat down on the berth, looking up at their host mech with equal expressions of worry.

“That was harsh.” Rumble acquiesced, nodding.

“Absolutely dreadful.” Ravage chimed in, arching her back in a rather luxurious stretch. Her paws kneaded the floor, claws extending and scratching lightly at the silver alloy underfoot.

Rumble glared down at her over the edge of the berth. “You could have stepped in, y’know. Helped Soundwave out a bit.”

The feline’s scarlet optics flashed as she stared up at her sibling. “This isn’t my mess to fix,” she said sternly, flicking an ear.

Frenzy grimaced.

Buzzsaw flapped his wings, looking ready to interject but Soundwave raised a hand, effectively cutting them all off. Four pairs of optics turned to look at him expectantly, a few worried and one in particular unamused. They could sense the turmoil within him but also, the sense of bitter understanding. They all knew that there was no winning back Jazz’s complete trust or affection; they’d lost it a long time ago and the saboteur’d only agreed to the armistice only out of necessity. When all of this was said and done, chances were they’d each walk their own different paths, diverging and never again reconnecting.

It was a rather painful revelation because the memories of what they’d had were still fresh in all their minds. The laughs, the warmth and the emotional connection borne out of a mutual understanding of the war and its consequences...but such things were often inevitable.

Because sometimes, some partnerships, some relationships, just were never meant to be.

~~~

Jazz awoke in the middle of the night cycle with a soft gasp, visor flickering online to the darkened depths of what was most definitely not the servants’ quarters. Gentle snores forced him to look around and he grimaced upon noticing that he was curled up among a mess of pillows and sheets, Ravage nestled at the foot of the berth with the aerials occupying the edge of the headpost above him, all three deep in recharge.

Stronger hums of an engine had Jazz lifting his torso up a bit and he caught sight of Soundwave, on his side and with his back pointed towards the saboteur from his place on the recliner next to the balcony doors. He was offline, deep in recharge, far and away from Jazz which was exactly where he should be. Definitely not curled against his back with his arms wrapped around him.

His frame was still running a little hot from his memory influx and Jazz hated himself for even entertaining such thoughts in the first place. The mech was his fragging enemy for crying out loud; sure, he wasn’t hellbent on ending his life but he was still consorting with the enemy, choosing to still side with them even after learning the truth. Jazz knew that if he hadn’t been carrying, Soundwave would have no qualms about putting him out of his misery.

Soundwave’s host mech coding was the only thing driving his actions, after all.

Rubbing his face with his hands, Jazz rose to a sitting position on the berth, careful not to rustle the sheets or disturb the feline napping a few feet away. His back felt better than it had in decaorns and a large part of him wanted nothing more to curl back into the warmth of the berth and forget about everything.

But he knew that if he remained here any longer, things would end up getting worse among his peers down below. They already called him plenty of unsavory things; the last thing he needed was them alienating him on the account that he was ‘seducing one of the VIP guests.’ Crosswire was probably having a field day in his absence.

Giving the room one final sweep, the mech slowly lifted his feet and swung them over the edge, carefully controlling his venting. It was a tad harder than he expected but at the very least he managed to do so without alerting Ravage; surprising, but who was he to question a stroke of good luck?

Unfortunately, his luck was limited and when he pushed off to land on the floor, a very loud thump sounded and the sound of a yawning feline had him unfurling from his tensed position. Glancing over his shoulder, he was met with a pair of unamused red optics, groggily blinking and shuttering to focus.

“Trying to escape?” Ravage asked, sounding annoyed at having been woken from her sleep. Fortunately, she was the only one.

“I thought I was a guest.” Jazz retorted.

“You are,” Ravage said. “But even a guest has their limits.” Her optics hardened. “Soundwave told you to stay put.”

“Since when did he become the boss of me?”

“Ever since he decided to make himself responsible for your safety,” the ebony symbiont replied in a whisper-tone, annoyed. “You think this is fun for him?”

“Maybe.” The saboteur said. “He gets off on power plays.”

Ravage rolled her optics. “I swear to Primus, you two will send me to an early smelting.” She gestured to the berth with a terse jerk of her snout. “Get back to your recharge. Or else I’m going to yawn loudly and wake everyone up.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.” Ravage said, tail swishing.

“Fine.” Jazz said, throwing his hands up in defeat. “Whatever.” He pretended not to enjoy the feel of the soft plush material underneath his frame or the way his struts thanked him when he managed to finally regain his normal position among the pillows and textiles.

“You’re more trouble than I gave you credit for,” Ravage said sleepily, readjusting her position so her back was pressed against one of Jazz’s legs.

The saboteur hummed softly. “Probably more than I’m worth.”

“No.” Ravage said and the purr that followed her word traveled up through the length of the saboteur’s frame, soothing him in a way that was almost motherly. Any other time, he would’ve vehemently protested the coddling but in that moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

~~~

Jazz took a deep invent, holding it for a few moments before letting it out slowly and methodically. The hands at his back took heed of his movements, a soft voice asking him to repeat the action before they retreated and Jazz was finally able to relax from his stiff posture.

Jespa sat down in a small chair in front of him, green optics soft.

“How do you feel?”

The saboteur almost laughed at the question. How did he feel? He wasn’t sure how to answer and yet he could describe every emotion floating inside of him with startling sincerity. But he wasn’t comfortable answering in either format so he simply shrugged.

“I’m tired.” It was as honest as he could be without downright blathering out the truth. One day in comfortable berth might have eased his physical pain a bit but it did nothing to sooth his fears and worries. He’d stormed out of the room as soon as the morning cycle began, yelling that he was going to see Jespa before Ravage made a racket.

Jespa had been expecting him, unsurprisingly, lips set into a thin fine line as she admitted him into her office and helped him sit on top a cold examination cot.

But her demeanor was more worrying than angry. And Jazz had found it a bit more comforting to realize that this was one bot he didn’t have to be on edge with; she could be trusted. For the most part.

“These dents look fresh.” She said, trailing her fingers over Jazz’s ventrum. “Judging by the depth and pattern, I assume they weren’t made because of a fall, were they?”

The saboteur shook his helm. “No.”

Jespa sighed. “You understand that whatever is said between us remains confidential, correct? If you’ve been the victim of violence, you can—."

“I’m not a victim.” Jazz said all too quickly, words biting and visor flashing. The medic stopped midsentence and withdrew her hands to a safe distance, posture immediately deflating to non-threatening.

Noticing his outburst, Jazz blinked and jerked his head back in surprise but he offered no apology. Clenching his hands tightly in his lap, he turned his helm away and dimmed his blue optical band.

“Just...don’t use that phrase,” he said in way of an explanation. “I’ve had enough bots call me that for it to leave a bitter taste in my mouth.”

Jespa hesitated, then slowly nodded. “I see.” Her green optics flickered to her office door and then back to the mech in front of her. Ever so slowly, she reached out to place her hand on his, field flaring slightly so he could read her intentions before she even acted.

He let the small contact between them reside, showcasing nothing but curiosity.

“Of course you’re not.” She agreed, smiling softly. And she said nothing else as she proceeded to mend the dents in his protoform and armor, hands slow and careful. Jazz watched her through vieled optics, his own field testing hers for any more answers to the cryptic answer she’d just given. But he found nothing of value there.

When the time came for the internal scans, he obeyed and went flat on his back on the cot, staring up at the ceiling and counting the seams that transversed the dark grey alloy. She wheeled out a small monitor and placed it beside him, the wired scanner hovering over his lower torso and emitting a soft red glow that quickly turned green when it finished.

The screen was turned towards the medic and her optic ridges furrowed slightly as she read the monitor, before her faceplates softened into a soft smile.

“Your bitlet is doing rather well.” She said, tapping a few things on the screen. “Strong Sparkbeat, steady vital signs and though it’s growth’s a bit behind, it’s progressing at an acceptable rate.” Bright green optics went to the slack jawed saboteur. “Would you like to hear?”

Jazz froze. “What?”

“Your creation’s Sparkbeat. I’m sure you’ve no doubt found yourself receiving small databurts from the bitlet at this stage but one thing that helps carriers strengthen the bond between them and their charges is listening to the Sparkbeat. It helps you recognize its frequency and makes it easier to sync yours to theirs.”

The saboteur found himself speechless. A big part of him wanted to say yes, because Primus it was his bitlet’s Sparkbeat, but he quickly remembered the feline that was probably loitering outside in the hall, making sure he was exactly where he said he’d be and he shook his head.

“No, thanks.” He said, regretting each word. “I’m good.”

Jespa’s face fell. “Oh. Well, alright.” She put the scanner away and shut down the machine, subspacing a datapad and typing in a few notes. “If you ever find yourself changing your mind, you know where to find me.”

When Jazz finally managed to get himself upright, he was surprised to find a small tube of miniature blue cubes being held out in front of him. He glanced up to the femme, frowning. “What’s this?”

“Supplements.” She said, shrugging. “Because it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that mech of yours isn’t doing a good job at providing your bitlet with the additives it needs.”

Jazz immediately felt his faceplates heat up. “W-what are you talking about?”

Jespa huffed. “Call it a medic’s intuition.” She rattled the tube until Jazz took it, that same smile never leaving her faceplates. It took all of the saboteur’s efforts not to splutter right then and there; instead he took the tube, subspaced it and with a very firm glare, assured the femme that the blue host mech was definitely not his. They weren’t anything and it was foolish to assume otherwise.

He hadn’t even bothered with a proper farewell before he was out the door and he turned to his left, half expecting Ravage to be loitering about like the lurking shadow that she was.

But the hall was empty. Well, almost empty. The patter of tiny paws had him turning his helm to the other side and he caught sight of a small blue quadruped skittering down the hall towards him. It bore white optics, which contrasted deeply with its pastel like plating. It was tiny, seemingly capable of almost fitting in Jazz’s palm but it’s armor plating held an array of razor sharp edges.

When it caught sight of him, it halted and its little nose twitched as it smelled the air. Then it purred and stalked up with its thin tail help up high, reminiscent of an Earth cat’s greeting. Jazz grimaced slightly as it brushed against his leg, weaving between them before plopping down in front of him.

“Pet.” It said, optics twinkling.

Jazz scoffed. “No.”

“Pet.” It said again, reaching a paw forward.

“Don’t you understand mech-speak? I said no."

A small rumble sounded from the creature, a symbiont because Jazz had seen enough in his lifetime to notice what they looked and felt like, and its hackles rose. “Pet.” The tone was more insistent and Jazz frowned as its tail swished across the floor, protruding barbells making it screech with every movement.

“ _Pet!_ ” The symbiont hissed. And before Jazz could even think of responding, it hissed and pelted down the hallway that it came from, disappearing around a corner and leaving the saboteur with a very confused expression in the middle of an empty hallway.

~~~

“You need to try these zirconium chews; they’re absolutely delightful.”

Soundwave glanced to the red mech beside him currently offering the array of silver confectionaries. Reverb was grinning, the epitome of relaxation, and he kept shoving the platter into Soundwave’s personal space like some overeager youngling. In any other time, it would have been annoyingly amusing but now, Soundwave simply felt irked and he took a chew from the plate simply so the red mech would cease with his antics.

He took a small bite out of it, frowned at the taste and quickly snuck it under the table to Ravage’s waiting jaws. She devoured it in a few bites, finding the strange metallic sweetness delicious and she purred her thanks.

Around them sat the usual array of bots, the veterans and wayward bots Reverb had claimed to taking in, and they were all focused on the food and conversation that was in easy reach. They laughed and jeered, clinking cubes of High Grade and devouring the offered confectionaries in a way that reminded Soundwave of nobles from the previous Golden Age. Luckily for him, the space between them and himself was wide and far and the only bots in his victinity were Rethelia, Reverb and Argyrus, all of them taking their usual place at the far edge of the table.

Rethelia was picking at her food, mashing gummies into paste and mixing the different colors together with her finger.

Argyrus had Radiance balanced on one knee, the green mech offering him foods with a care and reverence that would have been endearing to those who didn’t know of the representative’s true nature. Radiance was his usual chipper self, perfectly healed from his accident and blabbering at his sire and carrier with far too much enthusiasm; once or twice the youngling tried to catch Soundwave’s attention but the telepath had ignored him, far too uncomfortable to engage in discourse with him.

It was hard to look into those wide optics, that round face and not be reminded that his own creation was on the way. It was easy to remain disconnected when the creation was still absent but looking at Radiance reminded the telepath of what was waiting just around the corner for him and his tanks churned of their own accord.

He’d lost his appetite even though his HUD flashed with a warning that said his fuel levels were beneath the halfway mark.

“You do realize it’s improper etiquette to pick at your plate in your host’s presence, do you not?” Soundwave glanced up at Reverb, careful to keep his displeasure from radiating out in his field.

“Affirmative,” Soundwave replied evenly. “Soundwave, not in need of fuel.”

The lie was easily caught by the red host mech and he rolled his optics, shaking his head. “Oh, Soundwave. Are you still not over what happened between us? That was so very long ago.”

Argyrus’ optics flashed with displeasure at the mention and Radiance cocked his helm to one side in question but no one paid him any heed. A few servants came in to refill their drinks and Soundwave tried not to look disappointed when he didn’t see the familiar dark grey plating of the saboteur among them. Jazz had disappeared with nothing more than a vague confirmation of his whereabouts and Ravage had done a brief recon to find that he was with Jespa before returning back with him to indulge in their morning cycle meal.

Soundwave had wanted her to tail him but she’d told him that it would have ended up doing more bad than good to their already precarious partnership.

“You were supposed to tell him,” Rethelia seethed, stopping her disintegration of the food and glaring up at her twin. “Not arrange an assassination attempt without his fragging knowledge.”

Reverb glared right back, orange visor flashing menacingly over his cruel smile. “He’s still here, isn’t he?”

“For now,” Rethelia replied, blue lips twisted in displeasure. She leaned around the bulk of her sibling’s bulk to stare at the blue telepath. “Don’t feel obligated to remain, Sounders.”

“Hey, none of that talk.” Reverb admonished, patting the air. “You make it sound like we’re holding him against his will.” His field shifted to something more humorous and he elbowed Soundwave softly. “It’s not like you with that little servant, is it?”

Soundwave grimaced.

“Leave him alone.” Rethelia grumbled. “Honestly, Reverb, you think you’re charming but you’re just slagging annoying.”

Reverb shrugged. “You’re just mad the idea wasn’t yours.”

The blue femme’s hands curled into claws and griped feebly at the air, as if she were mere moments away from reaching out and choking her sibling into stasis. But a small tap on her shoulder form the youngling on her other side snapped the femme out of her fury and she turned to give him her full attention instead.

The red mech preened and turned to Soundwave, a smile playing on his lips. “But really, Sounders, tell me...why that one in particular?”

The blue mech shrugged, staring at his cube of coolant and the condensation that dripped down the edges. “Meister, agreeable company.”

Reverb snorted. “Really?”

“Affirmative.”

“Ah.” A moment of silence and then Reverb’s field rippled playfully. “Is he good in the berth too?”

Soundwave stiffened but when he responded, his voice was even and sure. “Affirmative.”

“Hm.” Reverb leaned back in his chair, lips twisting to one side in consternation. “Interesting.”

The telepath wasn’t too keen on the tone the red mech adopted and he turned his helm to stare at him, red visor lighting up with curiosity. The sound of a door opening prompted Soundwave to glance back and he narrowed his optics upon seeing a flash of blue zip through the legs of Argyrus’ retainer and clamber rather ungracefully into Reverb’s lap.

It was a small pastel blue symbiont, a feline with sharp edges and unusual optics, and it made noises that were far too shrill for Soundwave’s liking. Beneath the table, the telepath felt Ravage tense but a prod through their bond yielded little of a response.

“Halux!” The red mech crooned, scratching one of the symbiont’s ears. “Where’ve you been?”

“Pet.” It said, and Reverb obliged. His hands followed the gentle curve of its helm, the ripple of the flared plating on its back; each stroke made its optics glow a little brighter and even when they narrowed into slits of pleasure, their odd white light still shone through.

“Halux’s a special little breed of symbiont,” Reverb said, low enough so only Soundwave could hear. “He’s a small breed of feline that lives in the Sea of Rust, in the mountains that border it and Tarn. They’re tiny creatures but remarkable trackers.” The red mech grabbed the symbiont underneath it’s front arms and brought him up to his face, smiling when it reached forward and bopped its nose to his visor. “In the Sea of Rust, there’s nothing by oxidization and death. A bot could very easily die there. But these little creatures thrive in an otherwise hostile environment. They’re rumored to have the most impeccable sense of smell, which is the key to their survival.”

Halux purred, as if agreeing with Reverb.

Reverb grinned. “They can smell anything. A flake of metal over a thousand kliks. A whiff of Energon on a small breeze.” He paused and the look he aimed in Soundwave’s direction was almost demeaning. “Local legends say they can also smell lies.”

Bright white optics blinked curiously up at the telepath, the purr never faltering. The look in the feline’s optics told of a mind that was sharper than it let on and Soundwave was reminded of the very first encounter he’d had with Ravage. But unlike his own symbiont, Halux exuded an energy that was similar to his own host mech. Slick and oily, something unknown hiding beneath its murky depths.

It made the telepath uneasy. But that was nothing new. The cheery atmosphere he’d arrived to had disappeared, replaced by a creeping malevolence he couldn’t quite pinpoint the source of. Despite the fact that he was surrounded by family and he was free to come and go as he pleased, he couldn’t help but feel trapped; if Jazz had any say in this situation, he’d no doubt say that Soundwave found himself in a gilded cage.

A rather fitting analogy.

Reverb allowed Halux to curl up in his lap and he continued to pet it gently, fingers unusually temperate. “You’d never lie to me, would you?” The red mech asked, not looking up. “Hate me, yes. Despise my courses of action, of course. But you’d never be dishonest, eh, Soundwave?”

A free hand came up to caress Soundwave’s forearm. The telepath stayed still, a statue beneath Reverb’s ministrations. “Negative.”

The hand retreated. “Good.” Reverb picked up a chew from his plate and offered it to Halux, chuckling when the docile creature all but bit his finger off in its quest to devour the treat. Rubbing his thumb and forefinger together briefly, Reverb let Halux jump off underneath the table and the creature disappeared into the fray of mechs and femmes further down the dining area.

Against his leg, Soundwave felt Ravage’s frame relax a fraction of an inch.

Reverb dusted himself off with that carefree smile of his. “Now, Soundwave, I know we said that we wouldn’t delve into any of our...political matters but I’m afraid I’ve got something important to ask of you.”

Soundwave let his anger flood into his field, warning the red mech of just how much he’d hated the last time they’d dabbled in such things.

“Look,” Reverb said placating, palms and outstretched fingers pressed against one another. “I think we got off on the wrong foot here. I know I shouldn’t have gone after you-know-who like that and I want to offer my apologies. I sent an antidote to the clinic he’s been housed in and I’ve been told he’s making a speedy recovery. Mistake rectified.” He paused awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “But that’s put a little kink in my plans. You see, I have an asset that’s very keen on seeing the former warlord and the Prime removed from power, preferably in pieces and in a casket. But I’m not one about senseless killings.”

An orange visor flickered sympathetically. “I know you care about them. Perhaps not on an intimate level...but they were important parts of your life. And I can respect that."

A hand clasped Soundwave’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “You and I both know that reconstruction is not going as it should be. There’s still so much poverty and sickness and death. And that’s because the Prime and his Lord High Protector know nothing about politics. Sure, they fought against a regime but they had no plan in place for the aftermath. I do. I have a mech who’s well versed in politics, who knows the insides and outs of establishing currency, a steady economy, a steady infrastructure that is capable of adapting to its citizens.

“I guess, all I’m trying to ask is this: why don’t you join us? Be the medium between our two worlds and help move us towards a more peaceful resolution? Nobody wants a war, Sounders. We all just want peace.” Reverb paused. “We all just want to finally be _home_.”

Soundwave stared into that orange visor intently, searching past it’s opaque material in an attempt to see the optics that rest underneath. The words were beautiful, just like they had been on the balcony a few orns ago and Soundwave desperately wanted to believe them. Because they painted a picture of everything the telepath had wanted for eons.

Of a family to replace the one the war had torn away from him.

But whatever hopes had existed before had been dashed when he’d felt Optimus’ Energon splatter across his chassis, when he’d seen the stoic leader convulse on the floor of the Assembly and heard everything be referred to as a gift. That in itself had shown Soundwave that whatever he thought of Reverb was up for consideration; there too many secrets, too many lies that the red mech was weaving on his own and he was doing nothing more than attempting to tie up the one end he couldn’t afford to cut loose.

Sure, Reverb had his contacts around the planet. But he certainly lacked one as deep-seated into high society as Soundwave; in his processor, Soundwave carried information on everybot, had surveillance capabilities that mechs only dreamed of and which machines weren’t capable of mimicking. In short, he was an arsenal.

And that seemed to be the only thing Reverb was capable of seeing every time he looked at him.

Soundwave wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Betrayed? No, that seemed too weak a word. Megatron’s selfishness that made him feel that emotion once and though it’d shattered a small piece of him, it hadn’t broken him. He still kept moving on, rebuilding his own life.

Perhaps hurt was the right word. It was what he’d felt when he’d killed the look of hope in Jazz’s optics in that little alley in Tarn and the only sliver of affection he’d gained from the mech was sacrificed for a family that ended up being more broken than whole.

Something in his posture must have tipped Reverb off because he leaned forward, worried. “Soundwave?”

The telepath rose up mechanically, limbs moving of their own accord. Reverb’s fingers reached up to catch his wrist, annoyance seeping into his field. “Wait. Where the slag are you going?”

Speechless, Soundwave mulled his processor for something to say but to his immense relief, Ravage slunk out from under the table, tail and ears dropping dramatically.

“I’m not feeling too well.” She said, voice rough. “Soundwave’s going to run some diagnostics to make sure my coding’s up to date."

For a moment, Reverb looked like he wanted to argue but Ravage let out a rather believable cough and the red host mech’s grip loosened and fell. “Fine. But we’re not done talking about this.”

Soundwave would have hugged Ravage right then and there but digressed, focusing on getting back to his chambers. The door slid open easily and he ignored the slight disappointment that curdled in his tank upon seeing it devoid of a particular saboteur. Lazerbeak and Buzzsaw chirped at him from their place on the berth, optics never leaving the datapad in front of them. It was streaming an Earth cartoon and Soundwave let them continue, all but collapsing on the edge of the berth.

Ravage slunk up beside him, red optics narrowed into slits. “You’re not seriously thinking about taking up his offer, are you?”

The telepath shook his head.

“Good,” Ravage said, satisfied. But a small databurst through their bond had her stiffening and she glared at him reproachfully.

“Scratch that. You are insane.”

Lazerbeak peered at them over her shoulder. Ravage waved her away with her tail, all attention on the blue host mech. “So what? You’re going to be playing both sides now? You know that’s dangerous.”

“Soundwave, understands.”

“Do you?”

“Affirmative,” Soundwave said forcefully.

“What about Jazz? And the bitlet? You know you just let Reverb know that whatever you have with him is about more than just a simple frag? If word gets out, it won’t matter that he’s recharging with you, he’s going to get hurt and Reverb will just find some way to pin the blame on whoever’s convenient because you’re a huge sentimental idiot.” The hint of desperation in her voice made her voice crack and she grimaced, upper lip curling in displeasure. “Stop holding onto the past, Soundwave. Or else you’re going to bring us all down with you.”

With those words, Ravage jumped down from the berth and disappeared out the room.

Her words echoed in Soundwave’s mind for the rest of the orn and when the night cycle fell and the door pinged with an entry request, the telepath walked over with a solemnness to his gait to admit whoever it was inside.

Jazz glanced up with that same indifferent air of his, lips pursed into a fine line as he tapped his foot and silently demanded to be let in. Snapping out of his surprised reverie, the telepath stepped aside and the saboteur sailed inside, footsteps light and EM field wrapped tightly around his frame. He smelled vaguely of antiseptic and cleaning agents and Soundwave resisted the urge to berate him for no doubt having gone back and demanded to be put in the servants’ rotating schedule again.

After all, it wasn’t like he could demand that Jazz remained in the room every orn. He’d go insane and an insane Jazz was always worse than a sane and conniving saboteur.

“Crosswire filled my berth in the servants’ quarters with polishing oil.” Jazz said, taking a seat on the edge of the berth and glancing around the room devoid of symbionts. “So don’t think I’m coming here because I wanted the pleasure of your company or anything."

“Understood.” Soundwave said, trying to maintain his neutral façade. Unfortunately, he’d always been less than exemplary when it came to social interactions and Jazz, finding himself a self-proclaimed master, always bested him in the area. Narrowing his optics, the saboteur leaned back and crossed his arms over his chestplate.

“What’s wrong with you? You’re acting funny.”

“Nothing is wrong.”

“Bullshit. You’re fidgeting. You never fidget.”

Soundwave chuckled, amused. It made Jazz start and the light across his visor narrowed into a thin band across the glass. “Okay, you’re freaking me out here, mech. What the slag’s going on with you?”

“Nothing.” Soundwave said, walking across the room and stopping a few feet away from the dark grey mech’s position. “Soundwave, merely tired.”

A long uncomfortable silence followed his fib and when the telepath spared at glance towards the berth, he saw Jazz still sitting on the edge, lips twisted to the side in disdain. “Fine,” he said, throwing up his hands in mock defeat. “Keep lying to me.” He made a move to settle back into the berth and Soundwave found himself moving of his own accord; his hand reached out to grip Jazz’s, blue fingers firmly but gently grasping the warm digits.

Jazz froze, helm slowly turning to take in the sight of their clasped hands. His lips were parted in surprise but he made no move to dislodge his hand; instead, he turned his gaze upwards and focused on the red optical band that was flaring with disbelief.

Soundwave tried to pull his hand away instinctively but the saboteur had managed to secure a grip on his hand and he held on tightly. Ever so slowly, Jazz’s other hand came to rest over the back of Soundwave’s and his helm gave the slightest of shakes.

“You’re trembling.” The saboteur stated simply and Soundwave huffed gently when he realized that he was.

“Affirmative.” He said, the word having been repeated so often that it seemed to be losing its meaning.

Jazz grimaced. “What’s going on with you, Soundwave?” His tone was soft but underneath it was a layer of professional curiosity, the desire of a spy to learn more about his target, to seek out the truth. But the telepath allowed himself, even if for just a moment, to believe the saboteur was actually worried about him.

Hydraulics hissing, Soundwave lowered himself to one knee and though it made his back ache something wicked, he felt lighter than he had in eons.

“Soundwave, propositioned by Reverb.”

Jazz’s grip on his hand tightened. “What did he want?”

“Information. From Iacon.”

Jazz was silent for a moment and then he let out a shaky breath. “And...what’d you tell him?”

The telepath responded quickly. “Nothing. No conclusion reached.”

The saboteur hesitated, disbelieving. “Am I supposed to believe you didn’t jump at the chance to be a secret double agent for your creepy family?” That blue visor flickered. “I’m hearing the words, mech, but having trouble trusting them.”

It didn’t escape Soundwave’s notice that Jazz had yet to let go of his hand. And his Spark swelled at the realization. The touch differed from Reverb’s; whereas his former friend held onto his wrist like a handler, Jazz held his with a reverence that spoke of familiarity.

Of an equality that had long ago been established between the two of them.

And suddenly, it was all so clear.

“Soundwave, knows of Reverb’s faults,” he began simply, the hold on his hand spurring him forward. “Reverb, responsible for murder, violence and treason.”

Jazz snorted. “Might wanna expand that list a bit.”

Soundwave continued. “Reverb’s vision, admirable. His course of action, deplorable. But Soundwave’s loyalty resides with family."

Jazz tensed at the wording. “I slagging knew it--!” Before he could pull back, Soundwave let go of his hands and reached up to place a crooked finger underneath the saboteur’s chin, snapping him out of his retreat and forcing him to look into his red visor.

“Symbionts.” Soundwave said slowly, so that nothing could be lost in translation. “Family.”

Jazz’s lower lip trembled, either with fury or sadness Soundwave wasn’t sure.

“Jazz,” he said softly, Spark fluttering behind his glass docking chamber. “Family.”

Now it was the saboteur’s turn to be the inept one in social situations. His mouth gaped like a fish out of water, visor dimmed enough that Soundwave could see those blue optics of his skirting to and fro in surprise. Small wisps of binary escaped his vocalizer but other than that, the only thing he seemed to be able to do was clench uselessly in his lap. His EM field was a mess; pain and anger were fighting for dominance, the former reminding him of what he’d longed for and the later hoping to prompt him to recall the reasons they were here in the first place. But as they stood staring at one another in silence, something else slipped into the saboteur’s field, warm and fleeting but oh so familiar.

Hope.

“Stop lying to me,” Jazz said, going for an irate retort but ending up with a desperate whimper.

“I’m not,” Soundwave said, dropping his voice modulation and expanding his field to mesh with the saboteur’s.

“Yes, you are.” Jazz insisted but his hands contradicted his words, reaching up to grip the collar flaring of Soundwave’s armor. “You’ve done nothing but lie to me all this time. Since the beginning, you’ve kept me in the dark and then you threw me away when you decided I wasn’t enough.”

“A mistake,” Soundwave explained earnestly, hating how much of the truth that answer left out. He didn’t dare reach out and grasp the saboteur, fearful of breaking this hauntingly familiar spell they found themselves under. “Wycom’s, was a mistake.”

Pain flashed in Jazz’s visor and his fingers curled into Soundwave’s armor with the familiar squeak of deforming metal. “You broke my Spark that orn.” He hissed. “And I won’t ever forgive you for that.”

Soundwave swallowed roughly, suddenly aware of the proximity between their faceplates. “I know.”

“Good.” Jazz said matter-of-factly and without any warning, one hand reached up to ghost a finger over a sensor underneath his jaw, one that forced his battlemask to snap back without his consent. Before Soundwave could voice a complaint, the saboteur was pulling him forwards and their lips met in a messy clash of lips and dentae.

Soundwave froze for a moment, fearful that somehow he’d reacted without Jazz’s consent but the lips beneath his were pliant and domineering, molding to his eagerly and with reckless abandon.

Humming, the telepath hesitated for a klik before positioning himself in a kneeling position between the saboteur’s legs, one hand molding itself to Jazz’s cheek while the other lingered on the back of his neck. His thumb ghosted over the seam beneath the saboteur’s optic with an air of familiarity, rubbing circles and reveling in the feel of soft derma. He allowed his other hand to ghost a path over the saboteur’s spinal strut, blunt digits dexterous as they traced the familiar pattern and dipped into seams to caress hidden nodes and tickle sensitive wires.

Jazz’s engine revved with each touch, back arching and hands trembling in their exploratory journey. A particular touch near the bottom of his back had him gasping and he let out a moan when Soundwave attacked that known erogenous zone, ventilations tense and quick as he struggled to expel the blistering air from his quickly overheating frame.

“Do that again,” he breathed against Soundwave’s lips, visor flaring with each increment of increasing charge. His hips were gyrating small figure eights on the edge of the berth, legs trembling for a klik before another pass of the telepath’s fingers had them wrapped around Soundwave’s waist.

The smell of the saboteur’s arousal burned the telepath’s olfactory sensors, sweet heady and intoxicating. But his attention wasn’t on the array hovering behind a leaking panel mere inches from his own; all that Soundwave seemed to be able to focus on was on Jazz’s lips and the way the dark grey mech sighed and gasped with each flick of his fingers.

For what seems like a single eternal moment, there’s nothing else but them. No syndicates, no political unrest or shattered hopes and dreams lingering between them. They’re simply two points of hot connection, sliding and moving in sync as if they’d been doing this for eons. They know where to touch, how soft and hard and fast to make the other squirm, to shatter the silence with sighs of pleasure and moans of need.

Soundwave’s hand wanders down the saboteur’s front, coming to rest on the protruding curve that indicated the growth of their creation. He paused, visor flickering softly as he retreated from the warmth of Jazz’s mouth to peer down between them.

Jazz tensed. “You don’t have to look.” He breathed.

The embarrassment in his voice is enough to make Soundwave smile and he rumbles softly in amusement, leaning forward to nudge their noses together. “I wish to.” He said and whatever Jazz had to say died in his intakes as Soundwave’s lips met his once more.

It’s a rather awkward tangle of limbs that they make when they finally move back on the berth but neither offers much complaint. Soundwave rubs his hands down Jazz’s sides and attacks the sabtoeur’s neck cables with his lips and glossa, smiling when a few expert caresses and nips help throw the saboteur into a gradual tactile overload that leaves him gasping and clutching at Soundwave ferociously, as if fearful that if he let go, he’d disappear. 

Soundwave’s frame trembled with his own charge teetering on the precipice of overload but he held himself upright on his hands and knees, not daring to move. Jazz’s visor glanced up lazily up at him and his lips twitch into a knowing smile, the creases along the edges of his mouth sharp and finite.

“Not there yet, Sounders?” he asked and the sound of his voice alone almost sent the telepath over the edge.

Visor flashing, Jazz reached up to press his fingers against one of the side vents of Soundwave’s helm, touch soft and almost imperceptible. But as they made their way downwards, over the boxy outline of his docking chamber, the plexiglass cover and the strong cables and protoform of his lower torso, the touch slowly becomes bolder, more electric. Simple ministrations that normally would have no effect on him have him trembling within kliks, every touch feeling like he’s reliving it for the first time.

It’s the feel of the saboteur’s fingers tracing the outline of the buttons on his hips that inevitably sends him over. He’s careful to keep his array firmly locked away but the telepath’s delicate neural net is sensitive enough that even that tactile overload feels like a cataclysm, exploding at the base of his back and sending wave upon waves of blissful pleasure that has his arms shaking and his visor flaring near white in appreciation.

It’s surreal, being in this situation and for a moment he feared that it’s nothing more than a hopeful memory influx. But when he rolled over to rest on his side, he could still feel Jazz’s cooling frame right beside him, warm and pliant and _there_. Jazz doesn’t curl up in his arms, nor does he turn to face him and grace him with the familiar sight of one of the strongest mechs he knew looking utterly debauched. But he remained near, visor dim and faceplates turned towards the ceiling. Deep down, Soundwave understood that in itself is a red flag but he’s too tired to chase that string of thought, the ones he knows will inevitably send him towards confusion and pain and misery.

All of his symbionts are quiet, both from shock and utter embarrassment at having been privy to such an encounter from the various hiding spots they’d taken throughout the room. But none of the twins dare voice anything.

Fortunately for them, Ravage was the mouthpiece of all his charges and she let loose all and everything that she felt in that moment.

There are no words, no verbal lashings or any sign of the burning diction that leaves scorchmarks on lesser mech’s Sparks.

There’s only a silence, deep, foreboding and echoing softly with bitter disappointment.

It’s to that, and soft muttered words from the mech beside him that he can’t quite catch, that Soundwave finally finds himself drifting into recharge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: _The Gala_ and _What Happened In Uraya_


	24. What Happened In Uraya: Reparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something happened in Uraya, something big, something important, and it forever changed the dynamic between the Autobot's former saboteur and his enigmatic Decepticon foil. (1/2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hey...
> 
> So, yeah...big break between this and the recent chapter. I feel so bad about leaving you guys on a cliffhanger and if you're mad and want to unsubscribe and forsake this story, you're totally free to do so. But hear me out! I offer my apologies for the long wait and bring you the first part (of two) of the recollection of just exactly what happened between Jazz and Sounders during their unofficial mission into Pion's city-state. 
> 
> It's long, took about forty-ish pages in my writing document and has plenty of angst and bits of warmth that finally (and hopefully) adds some substance to the relationship between our two favorite bots. I've taken the time during this busy period and mapped out the rest of the story, including the ending, and hope to once more regain a more solid posting schedule from here to the very much anticipated end. 
> 
> I've got new responsibilities in my life so the whole every other day posting probably isn't going to be as frequent but I will try my damned best to make sure it happens as often as possible. 
> 
> So thank you very much for your patience and support for this story and without further ado, I present to you, another chapter.

_“And in the end, we were all just_

_humans...drunk on the idea that_

_love, only love, could heal our_

_brokenness.”_

\--F. Scott Fitzgerald

 

 

**[Uraya, several quartexes ago...]**

 

Soundwave knew, from the moment Megatron and Optimus had told him he’d be paired up with a partner, that the mission was going to end in failure.

Granted, his desire to prevent the former faction leaders from learning what ties he’d had in Uraya had almost everything to do with that inkling but when Jazz had sauntered through the door, grinning and smiling, the feeling turned into a full-on pit in his vitals. He could have handled being paired up with anyone else; an Autobot, one of his former subordinates, Pit even a nameless neutral. But he’d ended up with the one bot that Soundwave had struggled to lie to over the general course of his existence.

The telepath’d had a plan in place; he’d arranged to send the other bot on a useless investigation of the local hostels with one of his symbionts and Soundwave would have made his way to Argyrus’ estate in an effort to make sure that the dissension wasn’t being directly caused by the eccentric purist, though Soundwave knew the visit was but a formality. He’d have handled the situation quietly, met up with his partner and they’d have reported to Pion’s estate to find absolutely nothing wrong. They would’ve headed back without incident to report or endure.

But Jazz had proven to be anything but easy to manipulate.

On the first night cycle, he’d snuck out and pure sheer coincidence he’d run into the one bar that housed several of Reverb’s operatives. He’d been clueless, thankfully, but he’d been more observant ever since, quieter with that visor of his flickering as it gathered visual data and his processor crunched the numbers in an effort to arrive at a conclusion.

And then he’d allowed Frenzy to accompany him to Pion’s estate, a supposed dead-end, and when the bond had flooded with Frenzy’s fear (for himself and Jazz), Soundwave knew then and there that the failure he’d envisioned had finally come to fruition.

Only it didn’t arrive in the manner that he’d expected.

Pain like no other tore through him when the estate exploded and though it lasted mere nanokliks, for the host mech it was like a thousand eternities. Because when the pain ended, the silence had taken over and the cold nothingness that echoed his distressed pulses towards his symbiont had been a different kind of pain no one but Soundwave could understand.

Jazz hadn’t been on his mind when he’d run through the grungy streets of Uraya, shedding the flamboyant pieces of armor meant to disguise him with his symbionts hot on his heels, ignoring the pain in his frame as ebony pieces fell and his natural blue hue was finally brought to the light.

There were first aid responders on the scene when Soundwave had arrived, a couple dousing the flames while most struggled to hold back the myriad of reporters begging for answers and the occasional dozen bystanders looking for their daily fix of morbidity. It’d been easy to sneak in, a couple peace-time authorities were nothing after eons of besting battle-hardened soldiers, and with seamless fluidity Soundwave had transformed and Lazerbeak had held him in her jaws as she and her siblings scourged the wreckage.

It’d taken only a few moments before Rumble was letting out a shrill cry through their bond, falling to his knees and using his bare hands to dig through a pile of debris larger than he was, his red visor flashing as he cried out his twin’s name.

Soundwave had shifted into his root mode and gently ushered the blue symbiont aside, sparing no calming words before he got to work, silently sending pulses into the tiny emptiness in his Spark.

And that was how he found himself standing in the middle of what remained of a Uraya’s late representative’s abode, among the smoke and the slag and heat, staring down at the tiny body of his symbiont, transformed into his alt mode, wrapped in the fragmented arms of a broken mech. There’d been no words to describe the scene and for the first time since Megatron called for an armistice, Soundwave found himself rendered utterly speechless.

Rumble keened.

Lazerbeak trilled sadly.

And then...the cold emptiness was invaded by a tiny, almost miniscule, pulse of warmth. Soundwave recognized it immediately, Rumble only moments behind in reacting.

“Zee?” He asked, voice tentative, as if he were afraid his voice would shatter the fragile possibility looming on the horizon.

There was another pulse, still faint but stronger and within moments, Soundwave pried his symbiont from the wreckage, cradling his tiny body in his hand and giving it a quick scan. The damage was severe, broken limbs, fractured struts, but it was impossible to tell the full extent without Frenzy transforming back to his root mode. Unfortunately for that to happen, they needed to be somewhere safe, where Soundwave could work without reporters and fire looming all around him.

“We need to get out of here,” Buzzsaw hissed, jumping back when a few flames licked the tip of one of his wings, singing and making a rumble in his intakes. His optics roved around them. “Bots will be all over this place in nanokliks. We need to move.”

There was a general consensus among them and Soundwave rose, gently allowing Rumble to climb into his arms and wrap the tiny form of his twin against his chest. The telepath was poised to move when Lazerbeak gave a small trill, causing all of them to pause.

Soundwave knew, then and there, what she was about to point out and to save her the effort of speaking, he turned to look back, visor dim.

Jazz’s arms were the only things visible, the rest of him hidden beneath the debris. Faintly, Soundwave could hear the sound of moving metal, voices that alerted of mechs approaching their destination and he froze.

Instinct told him to leave the saboteur behind.

His symbionts were safe.

There was no need to endanger them or himself.

But he couldn’t find it in him to take the step that led him away from the broken mech. He wasn’t sure what it was but he didn’t have time to ponder over it. But it fueled his movements, making him ignore the pain in his shoulder struts as he pushed away big metal beams, to push through the sting of melting slag on his palms, the burn of the smog in his intakes with each heated invent.

When Jazz’s slack faceplates were finally revealed, a strange sense of relief washed over the telepath and he leaned over the broken saboteur, visor scanning to check to see if there were any vital signs. There were a few but faint, fainter than Frenzy’s had been.

That was enough for Soundwave.

He checked for injuries and his ventilations halted for a brief moment as he took in just how much damage the saboteur’s frame had taken. Broken spinal strut, decimated limbs, shattered tanks...

How he was alive, it was beyond Soundwave. But the telepath was careful, cradling the mech’s frame in his arms as it hung by mere wires and gently rising to his feet with the mech in tow. Jazz’s helm rested against Soundwave’s docking chamber, faint ventilations fogging up the glass. Lazerbeak and Buzzsaw, who’d taken to surveying from higher up, let their host mech know that company was inbound.

It was time to move.

Soundwave glanced around for a moment, making sure there were no curious optics observing the exchange, and then he activated his thrusters, taking to the air with the speed and grace that had made him a menace to his enemies during the war. They flew for what felt like seconds, touching down in an abandoned alley in a part of town that lacked the usual neon lights of the downtown area and it was there that Soundwave began what would soon come to be the longest restoration process he’d ever tackled.

Jazz’s frame let out small bursts of static with each movement, the source of the noises unknown, and when Soundwave finally laid him down on the dirty floor, a broken hum began to sound from the saboteur, growing and growing in intensity until it sounded like they were surrounded by thousands of flickering florescent lights.

Buzzsaw glanced down at the mech from his position beside his helm, nostrils twitching.

“He smells wrong.” He whispered, voice strained.

Soundwave kneeled down beside the mess that had once been his foil in all things espionage. “Affirmative.”  His blue hands hovered over Jazz’s Spark chamber, shaking slightly as his visor roved over the frame. To an outsider, he looked to be doing observatory work. But all his symbionts saw the hesitation for what it truly was: Soundwave was unsure.

How do you begin repairing a mech who was basically struts and wires held together by damaged protoform? Jazz wasn’t moving, wasn’t twitching, he wasn’t giving out any signs that he was even capable of any processor activity. For all Soundwave knew, they had gone through the trouble of rescuing a broken shell, a living corpse that would inevitably prove incapable of talking, feeling, laughing, smiling...

As if on cue, the broken glass covering Jazz’s optics flared white and a shrill scream echoed throughout the alley, causing Soundwave to cringe and all his symbionts to stumble back in surprise.

“Shut him up!” Rumble cried, curling protectively over his brother’s frame. “Shut him up!”

Jazz’s screams were prevalent, his upper torso twisting and writhing in a way that reminded Soundwave of a dying turbofox, his lips parted to let loose screams that were more binary than anything, faint traces of his smooth harmonics peppered in each shrill echo.

Soundwave’s heightened senses alerted him of activity in one of the buildings around him, of lights flicking on and worried voices asking about the source of the disturbance. Within moments, bots would be converging on their location and Soundwave couldn’t afford that. They’d take away his symbionts.

They’d take away Jazz.

With no other options, Soundwave did the only thing he could think of. He loomed over Jazz, placing his hands on either side of the saboteur’s damaged helm and very gently leaned forward to press their forehelms together.

The screams continued for a few astroseconds before they eventually petered out, stuttering into low groans that subsided into soft barely-audible sighs. The bright white of the saboteur’s visor dimmed to a pale imitation of its usual blue hue before it went completely dark.

Soundwave’s visor dimmed slightly, his frame giving a small shudder before he seemed to snap back to full lucidity and he reeled back, falling onto his aft with a few needy gulps of cool air for his rapidly heating systems.

Laserbeak was at his side in an instant, worry in her EM field as she extended it to wrap around her host mech. _~Soundwave.~_

The telepath took a moment to collect his bearings, one hand coming up to massage the side of his helm. “Soundwave, functional.” His helm was aching something terrible but it’d pass.

 _~Are you sure?~_ Wary gold optics glanced back at the now silent saboteur, apprehension licking at the edges of her field. “That looked painful.”

Oh, it had been. Soundwave didn’t know what to expect when he’d delved into what currently counted as Jazz’s processor but he hadn’t anticipated... _that_. A dimmed red visor went to Jazz’s now silent frame, an odd sense of second-hand pain curdling in the telepath’s vitals.

Of two things Soundwave was absolutely sure. One, Jazz was very much alive. But Soundwave couldn’t be sure whether or not that was a good thing.

And two...they needed to find somewhere safe to begin their repairs.

Slowly, Soundwave staggered to his feet, accepting his sybionts’ assistance with grace before glancing around him warily. A window slid open from up above, and Soundwave glanced up and came face to face with an oddly familiar silver helm, adorned with kibble on either side and a clear visor that encased narrowed golden optics.

The femme blinked once, twice and then leaned forwards, elbows resting on the window sill. She said nothing, merely observed him and the telepath fought back the déjà vu clawing at his insides. Silently, he ordered his symbionts to transform and slide into his docking chamber, then very gently, he picked Jazz up in his arms again and made his exit from the alley.

He didn’t look back but he felt the femme’s optics on him, burning his plating, following his movements and it wasn’t until he turned a corner that he found himself finally free from her gaze.

~~~

“Two thousand shanix.”

Soundwave stared down the bot in front of him, optics narrowed in slits behind his red visor. “Price, too high.” He intoned, struggling to keep a lid on his growing impatience. The two of them were in a small closed tent, allocated behind the seller’s stand in the marketplace, a metal sheet being the only protection of their illicit trading from the occasional prying optic. It was dark, dank and smelled of old fluid waste and antiseptics and the surrounding boxes stacked high over their heads were rusty and dented. Around them, the loud voices of merchants and customers sounded inches away and the telepath heightened the input of his sensors to alert him should any unwanted bots dare to interfere.

The merchant shook his head at Soundwave’s words, his single optic and clawed hands flickering excitedly. “Nonsense! I assure you, mech, that you won’t find a price much better than this. You’re asking for delicate parts, bits and pieces only a living bot’s natural nanites can produce. If anything, you should be groveling at my feet begging me to give it to you at any price.”

Soundwave deadpanned. “Negative.” He checked his internal chronometer and resigned himself to the theft of his credits. There wasn’t time for him to be picky and chances were the merchant would remain silent about this rendezvous if Soundwave paid him well. So, he gave a single terse nod of his helm, acquiescing.

“Good choice, lad.” Tut-tutting animatedly, the green bot sauntered into a small aisle and reached up to pull a box down from the top of stack. He attempted to dust it off but his claws merely scratched the surface and Soundwave winced at the sound, hiding his discomfort when the merchant wandered back to deliver the box by lifting the lid to verify the contents. The antiseptic smell grew worse and Soundwave stalled his ventilations, nodding once before snapping the cover back on the box and trapping the sharp odor inside.

“Contents, admissible.”

“Of course. I still wouldn’t be in business if they weren’t.” That single blue optic suddenly glittered with unrestrained greed. “Now, about my payment...”

Soundwave resisted the urge to scoff. He subspaced several unmarked credit chips from his subspace, some given to him by the perpetuators of this mission and the majority parts of his own personal funds. They were taken, examined and subspaced in the span of a nanoklik.

The merchant dipped his helm. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“...Affirmative,” Soundwave replied, more for propriety than genuine acknowledgement. He subspaced the box and followed the mech out of the tent, dimming his visor against the onslaught of artificial lights that bombarded him once they arrived outside. It was still noisy and full of activity, with bots jostling past each other without so much as an apologizing glance and all focus centered on the array of goods the various sellers were providing.

Soundwave weaved through the crowd silently, mindful to keep his head down and visor dimmed. In time, he eventually made it back to the small inn he’d rented out for the couple quartexes. If there was anything to admire about Uraya, it was how easy bots were willing to turn a blind eye and blame it on the glimmer of more than a dozen credit chips.

The bot behind the counter had been reading the news on a holopad and he’d given only the briefest of nods in the telepath’s direction as he made his way through the lobby and towards the elevator that brought him up to his room.

Soundwave appreciated the silence of the establishment. Save for its creaking floors, graffiti-covered walls and the prevalent stink of leaked fluids, it was stable and the telepath and his symbionts had been able to recuperate and heal in the tiny room that they now occupied.

Entering it, Soundwave was greeted by the familiar pale orange light that bathed the otherwise darkened room, the source being an old four-bar halogen radiator that rested in the far corner. It kept the chill of the outside air away and all of his symbionts were piled in front of it, taking in the warmth it offered with barely audible purrs of contentment.

Of course, the source of their happiness wasn’t due to the heat by itself. Ravage, who had arrived recently arrived in the city, lay on the bottom of the pile and on her side rested Frenzy and Rumble, curled together with identical soft smiles lingering on their faceplates. Frenzy’s wounds had healed nicely and all of his siblings busied themselves with caring for him, showcasing a camaraderie that the telepath hadn’t seen since before the war had begun.

Two berths occupied the room; the one closest to the door was wrought with messy sheets that told where the tiny bots (and occasionally Soundwave) rested, while the one that rested against the far wall held the healing frame of his former mission partner.

Soundwave’s lips pursed as he was reminded of the reason for his visit to the marketplace and the momentary warmth evaporated from his frame. Careful not to rouse his symbionts, Soundwave pulled up a small wheeled stool (damn it’s squeaking wheel) and sat down to observe his current work in process. Mismatched wires protruded from the sabtoeur’s chestplates, connecting him to an odd variety of energy sources from shuttle batteries to small fan arrays, all carefully recalibrated to offer a steady input that kept the blue orb pulsing at a healthy rhythm.

His familiar black and white color scheme was nowhere to be found, damaged to slag in the blast and so silver panels and thin chrome armor made up the majority of his physique. The metal of such pieces was thin and virtually useless in the long run but Soundwave’s credits weren’t limitless and he had full intentions of having enough shanix to make their way back to Iacon.

Jazz’d said nothing for the duration of his repairs but Soundwave could see the tiny twitches in his frame that indicated his processor’s constant activity. He frowned, inaudibly whispered words between his scarred lips, small things that fueled Soundwave’s endeavors.

Subspacing the box, the telepath placed it on the floor beside his feet and he propped the box open, hoping the damp smell of oxidization in the air masked the antiseptic odor. It didn’t but then again, what was he expecting when the contents of the box were a fuel pump and its subsequent integration systems.

It was dirty work replacing these delicate biological systems in the still frame beneath his fingers and though Soundwave could argue that he had eons of experience repairing his symbionts, normal mech’s integral operating systems were something else entirely. The complexity was astounding, the work tedious and the chance of committing an err skyrocketed with each passing nanoklik that Soundwave’s hands remained inside of Jazz’s torso.

But the telepath endured, spurred on by the fact that the bot he was working to save had all but given his life to protect his symbiont. It was an unspoken truth that if Jazz hadn’t wrapped his own frame around Frenzy, the tiny red and black cassette would have no doubt been blown to smithereens.

It was a possibility of pain and turmoil that the saboteur had managed to spare them all of and that deserved some form of repayment. Saving his life seemed like the most logical route to go.

Above Soundwave, perched on the edge of the metal headboard of the berth, was Laserbeak, deep in recharge with her head tucked under a delicate wing. She cooed every now and then, platelets ruffling and her EM field was extended as far as it could go with feelings of warmth and comfort caressing any bot in the vicinity.

The aerial had happily taken it upon herself to keep watch over the saboteur and Soundwave hadn’t found in him to deny her the opportunity. She’d always fawned over Jazz’s shiny finish and visor, even when the mech had been her enemy, and those feelings translated over into peacetime.

Careful not to startle, Soundwave extended his own field and smiled softly when the aerial blinked herself into consciousness, gold optics shuttering before lighting up happily when they caught sight of her host mech.

She trilled softly, wings flapping silently to work out the kinks of recharge.

_~You’re back!~_

_~Yes,~_ Soundwave agreed, continuing with his work.

_~You were gone for a long time. Did you run into any trouble?~_

In another part of the room, the twins and Ravage shifted but remained asleep. 

 _~The merchant proved difficult to convince,~_ the telepath murmured softly. _~But I managed to get the parts I needed in good condition.~_

Lazerbeak took a moment to observe Jazz’s slack features, optics softening as they lingered on that familiar dark visor. _~He’s going to be alright, right?~_ Her question broke through the momentary silence like a knife despite its softness and made the telepath pause.

The question itself is harmless but the emotion that rippled over the bond is enough to cause several alarm bells to go off in the telepath’s mind. There’s the usual empathy that makes Lazerbeak unique, that openness to trust and care, but underneath it is an affection that’s far too nuanced to be a simple fancy.

Soundwave didn’t like it.

“Attachment, unwise.”

Lazerbeak flinched slightly at the softly spoken words, claws flexing around the metal rod keeping her upright. Her golden optics swiveled to and fro, staring at anything but that crimson visor. _~I’m not attached,~_ she retorted, uneasy. _~I’m just worried.~_

_~Worried?~_

_~Yes.~_ The aerial stated firmly, finding her valor and looking Soundwave dead in the optics. _~We all saw what you did when you delved into his mind all those orns ago. Saw all the turmoil, the confusion, the pain...I think, after all that’s happened, that it would help for him to have someone on the outside rooting for him. Someone to want him back.~_

The words were idealistic, naïve and Soundwave was tempted to tell his symbiont that her aspirations were foolhardy. But he held his glossa, tampering his own emotions and forcing himself back to work without so much as a word.

It will pass, he thought to himself.

Lazerbeak was merely confusing gratitude with genuine fondness.

With time, she will see the truth of the situation. A debt was merely being repaid. In a few orns, Jazz would be healed and they’d make their way back to Iacon and they will forget any of this ever happened.

Because neither of them will have any reason to ever look back upon this.

~~~

“Recoil.”

Soundwave ignored the soft murmur, all his attention absorbed on soldering the tiny wires that lay exposed in between the struts of what was Jazz’s shoulder joint. The sparking tip of Soundwave’s finger traced the smooth red and blue curves of the filaments, reaching the tips that connected to the receptors attached to the socket and lightly applying heat and pressure that welded them back together almost perfectly. The limb twitched, an indication that the receptors were operational.

A relative success.

A small inaudible whistle sounded as Soundwave turned to the tiny table he’d pulled up beside him, fingering through the tools and pieces on the tiny silver tray until he found what he was looking for. As he made sure it was usable, he heard the murmur again and glancing over his shoulder, he saw Jazz’s lips (scarred but relatively as they were) move.

“Recoil.”

Soundwave paused, setting the tool down and rolling the tiny chair he was seated on a little closer to the tiny cot that the saboteur rested on.

Jazz’ visor was dark but his lips kept on moving softly, that word repeated on an endless loop.

“Recoil.”

Soundwave wasn’t sure of the word’s meaning. He fathomed that it was a designation, probably of an ex-agent or somebody in Jazz’s chain of command. He’d been repeating those a lot lately; Soundwave’s supply of anesthesia had been dwindling as time dragged on and the doses he’d been administering to the saboteur had lost their potency. Jazz could no longer be kept in deep stasis and more than once, bits of pieces of his consciousness filtered through.

There would eventually come a time when Jazz would feel the full extent of his injuries and Soundwave doubled his work efforts, hoping that when the time came, he’s at least have the worst of the injuries tapered off. His spinal strut was still a mess and the titanium rods he’d put as place holders to keep the metal from bending had begun to corrode, a byproduct of their unsanitary conditions and even lesser Energon stock quality. And perhaps of fraud, perhaps titanium didn't corrode and the vendor who'd sold the rods had insisted they were of the _highest_ quality...

Infections and disease were on the horizon and the prospect making Soundwave’s tanks churn.

Taking a moment to rise from his chair, ignoring the creaks in his own back, Soundwave made his way to the small refrigeration unit he’d managed to pilfer from an out-of-business liquidation a store had recently had, and took out a small cube of glowing blue Energon. It lacked the rich deep hue of properly filtered Energon and the telepath was convinced he could still see shards of unprocessed minerals still swirling in the liquid but he chugged it down regardless, wincing at the taste but appreciating the bursts of energy it provided his tired frame.

His hands ached, his optics were on the verge of an emergency reboot and he longed to simply curl up on a berth and recharge the orns away. A tiny part of him imagined that if he did so, he’d wake up in his apartment in Iacon and realize that the dreadful mission had been nothing more than a bad memory influx.

But of course, that was just wishful thinking. And Soundwave shuttered his optics and pushed those hopeful thoughts aside. Instead, he took a moment to glance around the room, gaze swiveling to and fro until it landed on his symbionts.

Lazerbeak was at her usual post, her brother beside her, both deep in recharge. Ravage was on the free berth, stretched out with Rumble and Frenzy using her belly as a backrest. They were holding a holopad between them, a crude version of tic-tac-toe currently on display. Rumble was smiling softly at Frenzy, who grimaced, muttered something inaudible and then grinned when his blue twin spluttered indignantly.

They were calm, for the most part. But he could sense their unease, their insecurity and wariness. They hated being cooped up and wanted nothing more than to be the ones running the errands Soundwave always went out to do. Unfortunately, Soundwave knew better than to let his symbionts roam around loosely.

Uraya may be where Reverb and Rethelia had chosen to settle but that did not mean the city was his home nor that it would be receptive to small symbionts wandering around the streets. Call him paranoid or overprotective but far too much had gone wrong for him to leave things to chance again.

Retracting his mask to rub his face tiredly, Soundwave turned back to Jazz and with a heavy sigh, he made his way back to continue with the repairs.

~~~

 

Joors passed.

They turned into orns, then decaorns and before long, into a quartex.

No communication had been established between Soundwave and Iacon. Not that he’d been trying but he knew that trying to send a message to the planet’s flourishing capital via commlink was impossible in an underground city and post offices would undoubtedly find the destination suspicious.

The telepath had instilled many rules on himself and his symbionts during their stay in Uraya but the biggest one had been that they were to keep a low profile. They couldn’t afford any unwanted attention. It was one of the reasons why Soundwave hadn’t dumped Jazz on the nearest medic’s doorstep; if word got out that the infamous Autobot saboteur was injured and in Uraya, chances were reporters and investigators would find themselves scourging through the DataNet, trying to find tidbits that could reveal the ‘why’ and the ‘how’ and the ‘who.’ Megatron and Optimus Prime would be at the center of it all and though Soundwave held little love for either, he very much preferred to avoid throwing Cybertron into another global conflict.

And not to mention they had more pressing matters to attend to.

Repairs were completed.

For the most part.

Jazz had been immobile for orns and he’d been under for even longer; only Soundwave’s telepathy had made sure the saboteur hadn’t spiraled into insanity in his own processor but even then, the process of reawakening entailed more than a couple complications.

Jazz had offlined to an explosion. He’d very well expected to die. And Soundwave was unsure of how he’d react to being alive.

All of his symbionts were gathered around the berth, optics roving over the silver form, fresh with welts and scars and patchwork that reminded all the Earth-savvy symbionts of an Earth fiction novel depicting a man made out of mismatched parts. His helm and face were the only recognizable parts of him and they found it easier to focus on that, though that didn’t stop them from asking more than a few questions.

“He’s all silver?”

“I think you made his left arm a little bigger than the right.”

“Think he’ll remember anything?”

Soundwave ignored the inquiries, checking over his repairs thrice before gesturing to Frenzy that it was safe to seal off the tube providing the saboteur with the watered-down anesthesia. The hiss of the turning knob forced everyone into silence as they held their breaths, watching as silver arms shifted and dark fingers twitched; that dark visor flickered once, twice before it finally booted, washing the crystal with the serene blue hue they’d all grown accustomed to.

Long dormant systems sputtered to life, humming and churning, creating an awful cacophony that was overlooked by everyone when they proved to be non-threatening.

Soundwave stood at the edge of the berth, careful to keep his posture as unintimidating as possible. It was to him that the blue visor traveled to first, lingering and flickering with an unreadable expression. Soundwave’s fingers twitched, so accustomed to working that they’d grown ill to staying still.

The saboteur’s lips moved but no sound came out.

Rumble’s visor flared bright at the gesture and he leaned forward, a hand unconsciously placing itself on Jazz’s arm.

Therein was the fatal tipping point.

Ravage reacted faster than any of them.

She launched herself Rumble, knocking him down just as soon as Jazz’s hand reached out for him but only came up grasping the air where the small blue symbiont had been occupying. The sound of screeching metal followed, of struts snapping, of wires being ripped out by intense whiplash, of a saboteur struggling to free himself from restraints that weren’t even there.

Soundwave swooped in to grab Jazz’s arms, using just enough force to keep him still without destroying the work he’d done. Jazz struggled, visor flaring white with panic and legs attempting to kick but only to move a couple inches to and fro. A particular hard shove on the saboteur’s behalf forced Soundwave to add a few unrelenting inches to his grip, the metal buckling slightly and sending pain that made the saboteur freeze, optics widening behind his visor.

“Jazz.” The telepath intoned, voice strained as he struggled to keep the saboteur still. “Jazz, safe.”

The saboteur let out what sounded vaguely like a garbled growl but slowly, Soundwave could feel the fight slowly leaving Jazz’s frame and the telepath kept murmuring the words, like a mantra, reminding and grounding the saboteur in their reality.

In the end, Jazz went completely limp, but his visor never left Soundwave’s and the fear and the desperation remained.

Ravage hissed and Jazz tensed, prompting Soundwave to point a finger at the door. “Go.” He said sternly, all senses trained on the bot he was holding down.

The feline jerked her helm back in surprise. “What?”

“Silence, required.” He explained, patience waning. “Symbionts, will remain outside. Out of sight.” At least until he could stabilize Jazz.

Ravage’s rippled with displeasure at the idea but the others complied, carefully following their oldest sibling who waited for them to exit before slamming the door to the room behind her. It left the room in an eerie silence, devoid of the familiar hum of frames and pitter-patter of small feet on the floor. If he focused, her could hear his symbionts on the other side of the door, arguing before disappearing into the shadows like he’d ordered.

It made his Spark hurt to hear the confusion in their voices, the unease...because they didn’t deserve to be stuck here with him...

Soundwave was startled out of his dreary thoughts by the feel of a warm exvent on his inner wrist. Glancing down at Jazz, he noticed the saboteur had been looking out the door alongside him and his lips were pulled downwards in what looked like the start of a sad pout, slightly parted so that each ragged ventilation fogged up the white metal of Soundwave’s arm.

The fight response seemed to have petered out the saboteur’s energy reserves. A small blessing.

“Jazz, safe.” Soundwave said again, voice as soft as it would go. He lessened his grip on the mech’s hands and upon seeing no resistance, gradually letting go until Jazz lay unhindered on the cot. “Jazz, alive.”

Jazz slowly turned his helm to look at Soundwave, visor a shade or two paler than normal. It was easy to see his optics, wide and alert, behind the cheap-grade glass replacement. He looked afraid, genuinely afraid.

“...stupid.” The word was laced with static but it was clearly spoken, tinged with sadness as it was spoken by the saboteur. Compared to what Soundwave had expected, the insult was mild and it made his lips twitch in the start of an amused smile. The simple word dug into his Spark, wrapping around it and making the telepath feel light-headed; he wasn’t sure if it was relief or happiness he was feeling but he chalked it up to delight that the saboteur’s cognizance meant his return to Iacon would be to a more receptive welcoming committee.

“Jazz, remembers what happened before entering stasis?”

The blunt question made Jazz pause. “No...” He tried to clear his throat but the effort only resulted in an ugly screech of static that made both of them still in surprise. “All I-member’s fire n’ pain...”

“An explosion,” Soundwave said, nodding. “Jazz, survived an explosion.”

Jazz’s lips pursed. “You...fixed—me?”

“Affirmative.”

A small pulse of sadness went through the saboteur’s waning EM field. “Shoul’nt’ve.”

“Why not?”

Jazz hesitated. “Not worth. It.”

“Jazz, saved Frenzy’s life. Actions, warranted repayment.” Soundwave quickly added, “A life for a life.”

That made Jazz crack a smile. “Quotin’ Dinah...Craik now?”

Soundwave frowned, the name not pinging a positive in his data banks. “Negative.” He noticed how Jazz’s voice shook, how his fingers curled into the metal of the cot and his lower lip quivered when the sparks in his injured arm appeared. “Jazz, in pain?”

“Sh’yeah...” Jazz’s gasp was akin to a drowning man desperate for air. “Hurts so bad...” He winced and the blue band of light across his visor flickered.

Immediately, Soundwave maneuvered around the berth to the place where the anesthesia tank resided and he grimaced upon noticing that the gauge read that it was very nearly empty. He glanced up at the saboteur, pondered for a brief nanoklik before gradually opening the nozzle and letting the rest of the precious gas travel into Jazz’s frame, almost immediately soothing his pain.

“Jazz, better?” Soundwave asked, though he knew the question was pointless in the face of the relaxed expression on Jazz’s expression.

“Yeah...” The saboteur breathed, visor already dimming. He turned his helm to the side, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Hey. Imma sleep...for a sec...”

Soundwave nodded. “Affirmative.” And the word hadn’t left his mouth before the blue visor dimmed completely into darkness and the usual silence enveloped once more. The telepath kept a silent vigil beside the recharging saboteur, red visor a scarlet beacon in the darkness. The only sound now was the creaking of the halogen radiator in the room but even though Soundwave could feel its warmth against his back plating, his Spark somehow managed to feel like a block of ice in his chestplate.

~~~

Soundwave was not a mech who dabbled in vices.

Very rarely did he indulge in high-grade, finding the crude taste too similar to medicinal imbibes and the after-effects too painful to be enjoyable. Drugs were something he vehemently avoided and he’d been a spectator to Syk withdrawal symptoms among the Decepticon ranks, seen the way a simple stimulant twisted a mech’s personality and needs until they were a slave to it, to not even fathom trying them about when reality proved too heavy.

But he wasn’t exactly a saint.

Smoking was an inherently useless pastime for beings that didn’t have lungs but the process of inventing and exventing an inhalant drew the attention of many bots and with time, scientists found a way to adopt the practice for Cybertronians.

Cygars were common, easily stuffed with whatever chemical or element that tickled a mech’s fancy. But temporary joints were the most popular, their one-time use and wide variety of flavors drawing in the most customers.

Soundwave had smoked a couple over the course of his lifecycle, a boron here and there with halogen ones dominating his scoresheet and he’d quit before it could become an addiction.

But Uraya had proven to be a hallmark for inhalant production and the availability of the tiny joints in their gleaming silver packages had eventually worn on the telepath. And with the tedious and somewhat painful physical recuperation process that Jazz was undergoing, the stress had built up until he’d caved and bought himself a pack.

He was on the verge of finishing it two orns later, taking a moment to indulge in one or two every moment of peace he was given and that was how Ravage found him one nightcycle after Jazz had been laid to rest and the rest of the symbionts were curled on the extra berth. He’d taken to the roof, sitting on the edge with his legs hanging off and his elbows resting on his knees with the peculiar silver joint nestled between his index and middle finger.

Whorls of neon green smoke wrapped around the telepath’s helm, curling sinuously and dragging across the dark blue plating before being hauled away by the occasional breeze. His systems hummed with each exvent, as if in gratitude for finally expelling the astatine rich smoke but Soundwave offered them no reprieve, pulling the joint between his lips and giving it a long, heady drag that made his visor brighten momentarily before dimming to its usual dark hue. He didn’t turn to acknowledge his symbiont’s arrival but his EM field flickered in a brief greeting.

Ravage’s optics narrowed as she went up to him, giving the air a careful sniff before hissing softly in displeasure. “Those smell horrible,” she said, taking a seat on the ledge.

Soundwave huffed. “Affirmative.” Wisps of green passed his lips with each vocalization and he scowled.

Glancing over the edge at the darkened streets below, alit only by the occasional street lamp and lit window, Ravage saw nothing of interest and she turned to look at her host mech with an inquisitive stare.

“You’d picked up the habit again? After all this time?”

The mech didn’t answer, staring into the distance.

Ravage sighed. “Does it at least make you feel any better?”

Soundwave shook his head.

“Then why?”

It was a rhetorical question, really because they both knew and understood that the halogens didn’t completely heal the exhaustion and the stress that Soundwave was feeling. It merely numbed them, made him forget about everything for a few moments with the promise that he’d deal with it later.

But later had been postponed one too many times.

“Jazz’s been progressing pretty well.” Ravage said, preferring to change the subject than drill her host mech over something he was too stubborn to admit. “A bit too well.”

Her tail flicked thoughtfully behind her. “I assume this hasn’t been the first time he’s suffered injuries like these. He’s too calm, too patient with himself...” Red optics narrowed. “Almost like he’s done this before.”

Soundwave knew, without a doubt that she was right. Being head of SpecOps during the war made for one too many dangerous escapades and assassination attempts, after all. He wouldn’t hold it past Jazz or the Autobot medics to keep such information under intense secrecy.

“Jazz, complicated.”

Ravage rolled her optics at the blasé comment. “You know, you could make an effort to act more worried. Lyeon’s been snooping around again, knocking when you’re not hear and trying to pick the lock when he’s feeling bold. I know the mech’s nothing more than an idiot but even you’ve gotta know it’s only a matter of time before the wrong kind of bots grow suspicious.”

The telepath didn’t answer, his processor nothing more than a blank landscape sprinkled with the occasional worry and paranoid thought. He knew what Ravage was saying was true, they were in danger and moving was the only answer they had the funds and time to do. But the halogen was doing its job and he felt nothing but a light airiness in his chest, the tightness and coldness absent for a merciful second.

He wanted it to last but his logic unit could never truly be nullified by a simply inhalant and it soon overpowered his euphoria, pushing aside the tendrils of bliss and replacing it with the heaviness of his responsibilities. There was still so much work to be done before they could even think of making their way back to Iacon and it fell upon Soundwave’s shoulders to get it done.

Giving the silver joint one, two more drags, he stubbed it out on the metal underfoot, dragging the tip across until its luster was lost and rose shakily to his pedes. Pursed lips expelled a long stream of smoke and he cleared his throat, frowning at the acrid taste lingering on his glossa.

Ravage remained seated, staring up at him expectantly.

“Recharge required.” He stated, and opened his docking chamber. The feline took heed of the slur in his words, the unnatural glow to his visor and shook her helm.

“Not tonight.” She muttered, hauling herself to her feet. “You reek.”

“Chastisement, not appreciated.”

“Yeah? Well, your stink isn’t appreciated, either.” Ravage retorted. Her words dripped acid but her EM flickered with worry. “Seriously, you need to take better care of yourself.” She pressed against his leg, brushing in a soothing manner. “We’re all worried. We’re all tired. Don’t be afraid to lean on us when you’re in need.”

Her tail reached up to press against the small of his back, egging him away from the edge and towards the door behind them. “Come on, let’s go.”

Soundwave rubbed his hand across his mouth and nodded, faceplate snapping back into place. “Affirmative,” he said and they both pretended not to hear the slight quaver in his voice.

~~~

Jazz was no stranger to death.

He’d stared it down almost all of his life; every night he’d gone to work in the dirty streets of Polyhex, he’d carried a knife in his subspace and stories of his fellow buymechs being murdered for the most insignificant of reasons echoed in his head and urged him to be a little more careful. Once or twice a mech or femme had tried their luck and Jazz hadn’t been fast enough and he’d been beaten and forced to bleed out in tiny alleys, stinking of another bot’s overloads and of the fresh sweetness of his own spilled lifebloods.

Luck had saved him then.

When the war had begun and he’d been caught sneaking into an Autobot Energon facility and the infamous tac-net on legs had faced him down and presented him with a life-changing choice, Jazz had been one wrong word away from execution by firing squad.

It went unsaid that death became an old friend during the war.

Peacetime had made its presence sparse and he found himself missing the adrenaline high that followed its appearances. He’d been hardwired to be his best when times were at their worst; he had no idea how to live in a world where peace reigned and he could walk the streets without having to look over his shoulder every nanoklik.

The mission to Uraya had been a chance to get back into his comfort zone, to use his skills without holding back without bots like Prowl looking at him like he’s some psycho in need of a ward. As if he’s somehow broken, needing repair.

But he hadn’t anticipated facing down death without a backup plan. When the bombs had gone off and the world erupted in swirls of color and heat, he’d reacted instinctively. He protected his agent (Frenzy) without so much as a thought of his own well-being.

And when the darkness had come, Jazz expected to feel fear, maybe unease. Because no bot is every truly prepared to meet their end with their head held high and Spark completely at ease. But surprisingly, he’d felt nothing but relief.

Because it was finally over.

Only it turned out not to be.

It was odd, seeing Soundwave so dedicated to his repairs; sitting hunched in that uncomfortable stool as he welded wires together and reattached sensor nodes with the finesse of a second-year medical bot. But he was anything if not persistent.

When Jazz took to getting back on his feet and reestablishing his balance gyros, the telepath had been there for every step of the way. Silently observing, encouraging and swooping in to offer aid and repair when Jazz faltered. He never raised his voice and though he occasionally disappeared and came back smelling of halogen, his patience never wavered.

Even when the owner of the tiny inn all but slammed the door down and demanded they leave because of insufficient funds, Soundwave had silently accepted and calmly proceeded to begin the relocation process. The telepath showcased the same calmness under duress that had had during the war, even when there was nothing but his own life at stake.

It was slightly unnerving.

“It’d be easier if you just dropped me off at a clinic.” Jazz said, feeling slightly uncomfortable as Soundwave bent down to scoop him bridal-style up in his arms; it was comical how easily the saboteur fit in the telepath’s grasp, a visual testament to their prominent size difference. “I betcha you and the kiddos can maybe catch the morning shuttle out of here, head back home and get someone else to send in a rescue team. Whaddya say?”

Rumble and Frenzy scoffed from their place beside Soundwave, their own arms loaded with Soundwave’s miscellaneous toolboxes. All three of them were on the elevator, watching the bars of light whizz past them as the lift took them down to the ground floor. The rest of Soundwave’s symbionts were in his docking chamber, hidden but ready in case of an emergency deployment.

“Idiot.” Rumble muttered.

Jazz craned his head to the side, catching sight of the blue symbiont and giving him a half-smile. “More idiotic than you lot raiding black markets and dealing with internal organ dealers?”

“Jazz, will be silent.” Soundwave said sternly, red visor flashing.

The saboteur grimaced and opened his mouth to retort but before he could utter a single glyph, the lift’s sensor alerted that they’d reached their destination. The single rusty door squeaked open and a pair of burly construction frames were revealed; they eyed the four of them through narrowed optics for a brief moment before they stepped aside to let them pass, gazes irresolute.

Dormant battle routines slowly reactivated and Jazz narrowed his own behind his visor. He felt a prickle run down the back of his spinal strut and he held the other mech’s gazes over Soundwave’s shoulder with nothing more than false bravado backing him up.

When they stepped into the lift and the door finally shielded them from view, Jazz allowed himself to relax and he let out a exvent that he didn’t even notice he’d been holding in.

The trip through the lobby was mostly silent. Soundwave entered into a brief conversation with the mech residing behind the front desk and it ended with the telepath ordering Frenzy to deposit a suspicious amount of gleaming credits on the desk and the four of them turning on their heels and leading without so much as a backwards glance.

Once outside, Jazz was met with the alarmingly bright glare of the faux sunlight and his visor dimmed several grades to allow his unaccustomed optics a better view. They were in a grungier part of the city, one Jazz hadn’t had the opportunity to explore before his accident; the air was thick with the smell of oxidization, a faint red haze of smog obscuring the view of the tops of the industrial skyscrapers that peppered the landscape.

There were no official lanes dictating the areas for pedestrians and altmodes so the wide sheets of rusted metal grating were a mess of street peddlers, bots and vehicles. It was noisy; Masses loitered outside of businesses and bots in their vehicle mode screeched around them, eliciting the occasional obscene tirade that ended once a party continued on their way.

Jazz let out an appreciative whistle “Toto,” he said. “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”

Soundwave said nothing though the two symbionts on either side of him rolled their optics in exasperation. Readjusting his grip on the saboteur, the telepath began to make his way through the population, careful to avoid diving across the streets when automobiles were passing by and keeping his distance from the loitering pedestrians.

“You got any idea where we’re going?” Jazz asked Soundwave, peering up at the mech’s hidden faceplates.

“Affirmative.” But Jazz could tell that the answer lacked the resolution the blue host mech was known for. With a sigh that indicated he expected no further answers, the saboteur resigned himself to staring at the road up ahead.

A hard shove against Jazz’s behind threw the telepath slightly off balance and the saboteur clenched his dentae as the movement jostled a few healing struts near his back, sending a sharp pain shooting up the length of his frame.

Immediately, Soundwave’s arms tightened their grip and the telepath whipped his helm around to glare at the offending bot responsible.

A tall and lanky red bot glared right back, hands clenched tightly into fists at his side. His single orange optic glowed menacingly, lips underneath curled into a sneer. “Watch where yer’re going, shiny.”

Jazz frowned, “Shiny?”

That was the wrong thing to say apparently. Stopping mid-stride, the red mech pivoted his torso to face them and his beady little optic roved over Jazz’s form before settling on his face. “Yeah,” he seethed. “Shiny. It’s what ye are.”

Soundwave tensed. “Confrontation, unwise.” He directed his statement at the other bot but Jazz could tell it was also aimed towards him.

The unnamed mech hummed, or maybe he growled, it was hard to tell over the din of activity around them. “Ye should listen to yer friend, shiny.”

Jazz offered the most inoffensive faux smile he could muster. “I definitely will. Thanks for the tip.” He reached up and placed a hand over the glass of Soundwave’s docking chamber, glancing hopefully up at the telepath. “Let’s go, babe. We have somewhere to be, remember?”

Soundwave was silent, still glaring at the mech, but after a nanoklik he broke his gaze and nodded. “Agreed.” Red visor glancing down to make sure Frenzy and Rumble were still with him, Soundwave jerked his helm to the side and silently bid that they continue their journey.

Thankfully, their new acquaintance decided to do the same and they each continued on their merry way.

Everybody pretended to forget the whole conversation.

Jazz held his glossa for the duration of their trip, both for the safety of everyone involved and as a minor courtesy for the telepath. Getting into a fight would be detrimental for them all at the moment and Jazz preferred to get in a brawl only when he had full range of motion and something else but the flimsy tinfoil that was currently serving as his armor.

They made their way into what appeared to be an avenue of sorts, free of vehicles with small restaurants and stores lining the blocky buildings that made up either side. The smell of oxidization was worse here and more than a couple beggars lined the edges, sporting a variety of injuries and disease that made Jazz’s plating crawl.

Eventually, they stopped in front of a small eatery, with its bright yellow neon sign advertising almost every single alcoholic imbibe in existence and offering free drinks in exchange for cubes of Energon.

Jazz frowned as Soundwave ordered Rumble and Frenzy to remain outside and the two symbionts set down the large boxes on the floor, pushing them together up against the wall. With as much gentleness as possible, the telepath set the saboteur down on the boxes and Jazz had to hold onto the Soundwave’s arms to steady himself.

“What are you doing?” Jazz asked, suddenly feeling exposed and far more vulnerable than he was comfortable with. His optics darted to and fro down the avenue, battle systems demanding to be brought online.

“Jazz, will stay here.” Soundwave said, prying the saboteur’s fingers from his arms with careful digits. “Soundwave, will return quickly.”

It took a moment but Jazz eventually lessened his grip and dropped his hands, clasping them tightly in his lap. “Okay.” He aimed for flippancy to cover up the momentary lapse of stoicism but Soundwave was not fooled.

“Rumble, Frenzy, will offer company.” He said and disappeared inside the store.

Jazz pursed his lips and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the sturdy wall behind him. Rumble and Frenzy sat on the ground on either side, fingers drawing incoherent glyphs into the dirt. They remained like that for a few kliks, optics downcast to avoid catching the wrong bot’s optics and silently waiting for Soundwave to finish his business.

Eventually, a femme passed by and looked at them with pursed lips before tiptoeing closer, holding out something in her hand. Jazz looked at it and then her, with confusion.

“Uh, what’s this?”

“Credits,” the femme said, sounding anything but giving. “You need some, don’t you?"

Jazz was ready to retort no but Frenzy beat him to the punch. Dipping his helm, the symbiont offered his hand to take the credit chip and he blubbered a string of thank you’s as the femme left. When she was out of sight, he grinned and twirled the gold stick in his hand, helm giving the tiniest of shakes.

“Works every time.” He said, subspacing it and taking his seat.

Jazz stared down at him, incredulous. “You stole it from her.”

“She offered,” Frenzy replied. “And it ain’t stealing. We actually do need credits. We spent all our money fixing you.”

That made the saboteur pause. “What?”

The red and black symbiont grimaced. “We’re just doing what needs to be done. We all want to go back to Iacon.”

Jazz narrowed his optics but said nothing. Instead, he turned his helm away to stare at the passerby, face unreadable. It was a few nanokliks later that Soundwave choose to emerge from the store and both symbionts shot to their feet.

“Didja get it?” Rumble asked, visor curious.

Soundwave nodded. “Negotiations, tedious. But result, satisfactory.” He turned his dark red visor towards the saboteur still sitting down and reached out his arms. “Journey’s continuation, necessary.”

Jazz’s lips pursed but he said nothing as Soundwave carefully scooped him up in his arms again. He was tenser than before, less inclined to quip and joke and get under the three bot’s plating but no one brought any attention to it as the resumed their trek through the city. They encountered little resistance during their journey and by the time they’d arrived at their destination, a tiny motel with flickering neon lights that didn’t even highlight the full name, the faux sky was dark and the bots on the streets were sparse and few.

The mech behind the counter was hidden behind a sheet of tinted glass that had a small hole carved where it met the hard surface of the desk, a disembodied voice gravelly asking for check-in info and payment. Credits were shoved in and a tiny holocard was offered in turn, the name of the inn and room number etched on side of the tiny metal projector. With dipped helms, the four of them made their way to their room and to no one’s surprise, the cheap cost heralded what they’d been expecting.

There was only one berth, with thin-gel padding and stained sheets that rank of anything but sanitization products, and it was so tiny, one would think it was a meant for younglings. But the desk in the corner didn’t look any better and nothing would be said about the monitor screen covering the opposite wall. A small door led to a tiny washracks, with stained walls and broken tiles for a floor.

There were no windows but a tiny oil-filled radiator rested in the corner, sputtering and puttering as it struggled to warm the humid air.

Rumble spat. “It’s horrible.”

Frenzy shrugged. “Better than lounging on the streets.” Everyone let out small huffs of agreement. The two symbionts scampered towards the monitor screen to turn it on and Soundwave helped Jazz make his way to the tiny berth, holding his arm firmly as the saboteur took tentative steps and finally sat on the edge of it. It creaked under his weight but the saboteur paid it no heed, visor instead focused on the warm blue light that flooded over the room once the twin symbionts managed to turn on the screen.

The screen showcased what appeared to be a documentary, littered with the occasional bout of static that made it hard to listen to the narrator’s voice. Rumble fumbled with some buttons on the side and the channel changed, settling on what they all recognized as an antiquated version of Cybertronian soap operas. None of them recognized it but the inane speech patterns and odd harmonics were soothing and the twins left it on.

 Soundwave knelt beside the tiny berth and began to check over Jazz’s repairs, a routine that almost everyone had gotten used to. But while Jazz usually made a few smart remarks, he was unusually silent and complied in a stiff, almost mechanical, manner. He rose to his feet, bent down, lifted each arm and wiggled his fingers on command.

The telepath glanced up briefly from his observation of the saboteur’s arm components, visor bright and focused. “Jazz, unwell?”

Jazz shook his head. “No.” He paused, then added. “Just tired.”

Soundwave nodded, understanding. “Understood. Jazz, will take the berth.”

The saboteur frowned, “And you?”

“Jazz, should not worry.”

Jazz looked ready to retort but thought better against it and he let out a small sigh. “Fine.” Settling onto the tiny berth with a few uncomfortable creaks of the support frame, Jazz offlined his visor but kept his optics opened behind the opaque glass. He watched as Soundwave walked around the room, making sure the windows and door were locked before he finally settled down on the floor, back resting against the foot of the berth.

Rumble and Frenzy murmured something inaudible and Soundwave’s helm swiveled side to side in a silent negative. Both symbionts muttered unhappily before the distinct sounds of transformations sounded and they both ended up snug inside their host mech’s docking chamber. The soap opera continued playing but no one was really listening and it was to one of the main character’s dramatic speeches that Jazz finally found himself offlining, surrendering gratefully to the dark expanse of recharge.

~~~

Three quartexes.

That’s how long it’d been since the explosion. Since Pion and everyone in his estate had died. Since any contact had been established between Iacon and them.

Jazz had watched the news for the duration of their communication hiatus, watching as Optimus and Megatron continued with their struggle to keep Cybertronian society from completely falling apart. Skyfire and Starscream had gone public with their bonding ceremony, partaking in a lavish Vosian ceremony that was immediately attacked and ridiculed by almost every purist on the planet. They demeaned and mocked but Starscream remained impeccably stoic and Jazz couldn’t help but feel a bit more respect for the mech. Though in reality, everyone who truly knew the two of them understood that a ceremony was only a formality at this point in time. They’d been pining for one another all throughout the war and when they’d revealed that a secret tryst had been occurring between them both during the last leg of the conflict, no one’d been truly surprised.

No news had been reported on the disappearance on either him or Soundwave and Jazz hadn’t really expected anything else. But it was odd, seeing reporters speak about how the world was making a turn for the better and seeing heavily-edited pictures of happy pedestrians and booming market squares, while he sat fearing for his safety in some run-down motel in Uraya.

It made it feel like he was in a different off-world place.

But fortunately, Soundwave and company proved to offer variable distractions from the monotony of their situation. Rumble and Frenzy had a small pack of cards that they used to invent new games with and though they were often incoherent, they proved to be quite enjoyable.

Jazz’s mobility had been getting better. With careful monitoring and subsequent fixes, he was able to walk around without needing assistance and slowly regaining his own independence.

Unfortunately, a lack of proper tools led to some struts healing with a bit of a kink and there was more than enough painful soreness to keep the saboteur from peacefully recharging. Local painkillers were far too expensive and often required medical notes to purchase but high grade proved to be just as effective in numbing the pain.

But it led to quite a few unusual interactions between himself and his temporary roommates. It was how he ended up on the floor, playing a heavily edited version of truth or dare with Rumble, Frenzy and Ravage.

The two formers were very into it, taking dares and doing as many things as they could that teetered on the edge of getting them in trouble. Ravage always asked for truth and once or twice she revealed a few things that made her younger siblings fall into a deathly silence that stretched on for what seemed like an eternity until somebody had the brass bearings to step in.

“Truth or dare?” Asked Rumble when it was his turn, holding up a card.

“Truth.” Jazz said, taking a sip from the glowing pink cube in his hands.

The blue symbiont’s visor flashed for a moment before he grinned cheekily. “Alright...” He glanced around the room, eyeing the sparse belongings, the broad back of the telepath working on a datapad on the other side of the room, before settling back on the silver mech. “What prompted you to join the Autobots?"

Ravage’s ear flicked and Frenzy grimaced, all of them half-expecting the saboteur to clamp up and divert the question. But to their surprise, Jazz only smiled and took another gulp of the high grade.

“Stole a couple cubes from a facility in Kalis.” He said, nodding. “I sneaked in by bypassing their security gate, knocked out the only guard after blinding him with my headlights and took the cubes before heading back out.” A laugh. “I was kinda off in my calculations though because the bug I put in the security footage was bypassed. Got caught before I even made it to the border.”

“Who caught ya?”

“Prowler.” Jazz said and the revere in his voice was difficult to miss. It’s hard to tell if the glow on his faceplates was due to the high grade or his visor but it bathed his faceplates with a warm blue hue that highlights his grin.

Soundwave noticed the spark of intrigue over the bond from his symbionts and carefully turned to regard the bots over his shoulder.

Frenzy shifted a little to the side so as not to obscure the host mech’s view.

“Prowler’s the only mech’s that’s been able to catch me.” Jazz said, shrugging.

“Soundwave caught ya a couple times.” Rumble interjected hotly. “Remember Helion and Altihex? When you tripped that security wire?”

The saboteur paused, lips hovering over the rim of his cube. “Did he?” That bright blue visor moved to the side, staring at the bot hastily tapping away at his datapad on the opposite end of the room.

Jazz snorted and leaned back to rest his weight on one arm, cube being tipped in his general direction with the other. “Is that right, Sounders?”

Soundwave didn’t miss a beat. “Affirmative.”

“Did I put up a fight?”

“...Jazz, difficult to apprehend.” A pause and then Soundwave turned to look at him over the cusp of his shoulder pauldron, the epitome of stoicism. “But not impossible.”

Ravage let out what sounded suspiciously like a snort disguised as a cough and Jazz laughed, wrapping his free arm over his torso and doubling over as his frame shook in mirth. His laughter echoed off the paper-thin walls of the dreary room, overpowering the sound of rickety radiator in the corner and the muffled groans of their neighbors trickling in through the vents.

It’s a noise that Soundwave hears for orns to come; when the silence of the room is too much to bear or when the buzzing noise of the bots around him meld into white noise every time he ventured out into the marketplaces to buy supplies.

Jazz drank through the stores of high grade as if they were Energon and with time, the rebellious saboteur was pushed into a sea of darkness and the only persona that occupied the small space was a washed-up mech wishing desperately for grandeur. It was a painful necessity since there was no funds for painkillers but nobody was a big fan of the reality.

Soundwave noticed how Ravage shied away from him whenever they brushed past one another, noseplate wrinkling as the acrid smell of the saboteur assaulted her olfactory senses.’

With time the avoidance extended to Rumble and Frenzy, who were careful to keep their games and antics to a minimum around the silver mech and when they could, they recharged in Soundwave’s docking chamber for as long as they possibly dared.

When the room was silent and only Soundwave remained, Jazz turned his attentions on him.

They were innocuous at first. Slurred questions and fantastical recollections that Soundwave could easily tune out as he worked. The telepath had taken up a few odd jobs, repairing technology for small prices and saving the funds for their trip back to Iacon, so he usually sat in the corner of the room, back to everyone and hunched over a piece of tech that was just barely repairable. Sometimes Jazz wandered over and watched him work, saying nothing.

But then the advances got...complicated.

An accidental brushing of their EM fields, invasions of personal space, smiles that were a bit too wide and a visor that shone a bit too brightly. Those were easy to overlook. But when Jazz walked up behind him one orn while he was working and wrapped his arms around his neck, Soundwave reacted instinctively.

He rose to his feet and flung the silver mech over his shoulder onto the ground, the impact strong enough to make the saboteur’s ventilations momentarily stop and the cube in his hands to shatter in his grasp. Soundwave loomed over him, battle routines primed and ready for combat; it took a few kliks for the telepath to register that there was no ill will or intent to attack in the saboteur’s field and when he finally relaxed, he took a surprised step backwards.

Jazz coughed. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

Soundwave frowned, bending down to help the saboteur to his feet. “Apologies.”

“What for? I’m the one who snuck up on you.” He smiled a bit too widely, wincing slightly as he began to dust himself off. “Guess that shows I’m getting back in my groove. But you left a couple dents you’re gonna have to smooth out.”

The telepath nodded, accepting. “Understood.” He paused, then asked. “Jazz, unharmed?”

“Nah, my mech. Just a little frazzled.” The word didn’t ping in Soundwave’s databanks and he brushed it off as an earth euphemism, nodding once in Jazz’s direction before preparing to make his way back to his work station.

The hand that caught his was quick and strong, latching onto his fingers and preventing him from turning his back.

Soundwave froze, staring down at their entwined fingers with methodical curiosity. When he glanced up, Jazz was looking at him intently, his derma tinged a dark blue hue that was overshadowed by the bright intensity of his visor. He looked ready to say something but thought better against it and shook his helm.

“Never mind.” His fingers let go of Soundwave’s, clenching into a fist at his side.

Soundwave saw the interaction was a good indication of Jazz’s recovery. The embarrassment and uncertainty was nothing more than a byproduct of his adaptation to the temporary codependency they’d established between one another and Soundwave spared it no second thoughts.

Alas, that proved to be the incorrect course of action.

A decaorn after the incident, Soundwave had taken it upon himself to allow Jazz more freedom, if only as a method of physical therapy that would help the saboteur get back more into his usual routine. When a particular client’s commission was proving to be too tedious, Soundwave allowed Rumble, Frenzy and Jazz to venture into the lobby to pick up a crate of Energon he had delivered and he anticipated no problems whatsoever.

But unfortunately, in Uraya, problems were never-ending.

It began with a message. A short databurst that Soundwave transferred from his personal communication line to an old datapad and a strange sense of joy-wariness invaded his field when he saw who exactly had sent it.

But he didn’t even have a moment to revel before the same comm was being flooded by simultaneous bursts of _surprise-fear-panic_ from his twin symbionts.

He was on his feet in an instant, finger pressed to his audial to amplify the signal. “Report.”

“Oh, it’s bad, bossmech. Really bad!"

“We’re in so much trouble...!”

Soundwave was out the door in an instant, flying down stairs and bursting into the lobby with the grace of a gladiator, drawing the attention of everyone assembled in the tiny space as he stood in the center and roved his gaze over its entirety, searching for the familiar frame colors of his symbionts and mission partner.

He found nothing.

“Rumble, Frenzy, report position.”

A moment of static silence and then the familiar sound of their footsteps sounded behind him, alerting the host mech of their arrival long before he turned around to face them. The first thing that crossed his processor upon seeing them was that they were unharmed.

The second thing he noticed was that they were alone.

Soundwave felt his vitals clench in anticipating. “Query: where is Jazz?”

Rumble skidded to a halt, ventilations harsh and rapid as he struggled to expel the hot air blistering inside his systems. Bending down, he placed his hands on his knees and shook his helm. “He’s gone.”

“There was a street peddler, a merchant selling Energon goodies, and he walked into the lobby to deliver some to the mech behind the counter and he just smiled at us and Jazz asked him if he had any spicy gummies and the mech said no and then he just went and smiled and—”

Frenzy nudged his brother aside, cutting him off midsentence to take over the explanation. “Jazz took off. He said he was just gonna go to the mech’s cart for some treats and then he just jumped on and they took off.” He said and his EM field flickered with a mixture of shame-anger, the former for losing the saboteur so easily and the second for the same mech’s audacity.

Soundwave was inclined to feel angry, disappointed, but all the telepath found himself feeling in that moment was worry.

How could Jazz be so stupid? So, irresponsible?

But he quickly reigned in that part of him riled with disbelief, knowing that the constant flux of high grade as a sedative would eventually tip the scales against them and this was nothing more than a belated example of what they’d had coming for them.

Pushing aside those demeaning thoughts, Soundwave focused on what little he could actually control in the situation. After a brief conversation via databursts, he had a small data packet containing image captures of the street peddler and every detail about his secondary vehicle and the direction in which both he and the saboteur had taken off in. The tiny video Rumble sent showed that Jazz had been the instigator of the whole ordeal and what had started as a rescue attempt was slowly turning into a reallocation effort.

Soundwave wasn’t exactly sure how to feel about the situation but he ordered his symbionts to scout ahead, trailing behind with all his senses set to their maximum sensitivity. Soundwave disliked being outside, among all the unfamiliar mechs and maze-like streets, but he knew that he had no other choice.

The search yielded little for a long while and the two symbionts and Soundwave found themselves reunited in a nameless little plaza a good three kliks from the building, platings marred with dust and grime from their search. But no trace of the saboteur had been located and they had all regrouped to alter their search plan.

Rumble and Frenzy were sent to a different sector of the city, ordered to stay in the shadows and to return when their fuel levels reached the halfway point. With tiny nods, they’d dispersed and Soundwave had been left in silence and prepared to scour his own sector once more.

But the sound of tentative but familiar footsteps behind him stopped him in his tracks. His Spark stuttered once, his hands clenched once before curling into fists at his side as his visor flashed in recognition.

Soundwave knew without turning around who it was.

But he still turned, anyway.

“Jazz.”

The silver mech was leaning against the wall, plating looking unusually shiny in the dim light of the darkening atmosphere as he crossed his arms over his chest and glanced at the telepath with a wide smirk parting his faceplates.

“Word’s that you’ve been looking for me.”

Soundwave grimaced. “Affirmative.”

“Shouldn’t’ve bothered. I’m alright.”

Oh, that was the last word Soundwave was tempted to use for their situation but he kept silent, hesitant to do anything that would steer the saboteur away.

“Jazz, alright?”

Jazz nodded, pushing against the wall to stand fully upright. He tried to hide it but he limped slightly, favoring his left side and Soundwave could tell that his shininess was due to more than careful handling of himself. Even from the distance between them, Soundwave could smell the whiff of cleaning solution, catch a glimpse of hasty wipe marks on the armor near his forearm when he shifted to letting his arm hang at his side.

But all of that was momentarily pushed aside when Jazz reached into his subspace and pulled out something shiny and Soundwave stiffened when the light caught the object and he realized what it was.

Credits.

Soundwave’s engine rumbled. “Credits, obtained where?”

Jazz shrugged. “Does it matter? We got them now, mech.” He thumbed through the chips with his free hand. “Got enough for a passage to Itehex maybe Praxus; we could stop off there, maybe a little further if the rate’s doubled since the last time I checked. We could regroup, catch our breath, and drop in on Prowl and report—"

“Negative.” Soundwave intoned, voice harsh as he cut the saboteur off midsentence. Whatever relief the telepath had felt the moment before dissipated and all he could feel was annoyance and anger, fueled by his own exhaustion and desire to escape the putrid underground city. He’d never called Iacon home but he longed for the gleaming golden buildings and busy but clean streets. He longed for the air that didn’t taste of oxidization and dampness; Soundwave wanted to be in the city where his symbionts could roam in peace and security.

Jazz’s smile froze, his sharp perception skills picking up the minute changes in the telepath’s demeanor. “Credits.” He said again, as if the money’s presence made everything better. “We’re one step closer to getting outta here.”

Soundwave took a few steps closer to the saboteur and that’s when he smelled it. It was a faint odor, hidden beneath the layers of cleaning solution and cheap cleanser Jazz carried on his frame. Those two hadn’t been there before but Soundwave wouldn’t have minded them if they were the only thing clinging to the saboteur’s frame.

But he did mind the smell of overload; that musty scent that smelled far too metallic, too sour on his glossa.

“Jazz, obtained credits where?” He asked again, stepping up to the saboteur until only mere inches separated them. There was an attempt to intimidate but Jazz’s recovery had fueled his bravado and he held his ground, blue glaring defiantly up into vermillion.

For a moment, there was only silence but then Jazz let out a scoff. “You already know where.” Gaze dropping, he stepped away. “Don’t make me say it out loud.”

Soundwave stiffened, appalled by the hot rush of anger that swept through his frame. He analyzed the data, trying to decipher its origin despite firmly believing that it was nothing more than disgruntlement about the fact that the mech was once more risking their covert status in such a dangerous city.

The results that he procured only offered more questions than answers and his back was aching something terrible. Jazz, despite his condition, was safe and alive. Soundwave called back his symbionts, alerting them that their small side mission had yielded a successful outcome. Rumble and Frenzy agreed to meet back up at the motel and Soundwave gestured for Jazz to follow him back with a stiff jerk of his helm.

Fortunately, Jazz decided to comply though his EM field was reigned in tight around him and he uttered no other words until they were all finally reunited in the tiny dingy room that they temporarily called home.

Ravage immediately jumped to her feet from her place at the foot of the berth, stalking up to them and sniffing and muttering worried obscenities under her breath. Rumble and Frenzy simultaneously groaned under her inspection but offered no other protest whatsoever.

The feline eventually turned her attention to the saboteur and her optics narrowed into slits. “You idiot.”

Jazz huffed, arms crossing stiffly over his chest. “Nice to see you too, kitty cat.”

Ravage hissed.

Soundwave rumbled his engine in warning, fixing each of them with a stern glare.

The feline didn’t cow but she accepted her host mech’s authority and turned her back on the silver mech, jumping onto the berth and sinking back into a tense puddle of symbiont on the gel padding.

Rumble and Frenzy joined their older sibling not long after, carefully avoiding Jazz’s inquisitive stare, and sending pulses of apology to Soundwave via their bond. The telepath knew that they held no fault in the matter and let them know as much, urging them to get some recharge before he grabbed Jazz and herded him into the adjacent washracks.

The tiny space was barely big enough for a bot, let alone two, but somehow Jazz managed to press against the opposite wall just enough so that a few inches of space lingered between them. Soundwave closed the door behind them forcefully and Jazz swore the thin walls encasing them shook from the impact.

“You gonna chastise me?” Jazz asked, breaking the silence and vying for a confrontational tone. But his voice shook as Soundwave loomed and his hands curled into fists at his side.

The telepath stared at him for a moment and then sighed, reaching over the mech’s head for the small bottle of cleanser and squeezing a small amount into his palm. Setting the bottle back in place, Soundwave thumbed the controls on the wall beside him and the tiny showerhead sputtered a few times before milky solvent trickled through in a weak drizzle between them. With a jerk of his chin, Soundwave gestured for Jazz to step in the stream.

“I can wash myself.” Jazz said.

“Affirmative.” Soundwave replied.

The light in the saboteur’s visor flickered briefly. “Is that you’re going to say to me?”

Soundwave said nothing.

After a moment, Jazz relented and stepped into the path of the solvent’s spray, wincing slightly when the cold liquid landed on his thin armor and seeped into his scantily protected seams. Slowly, his hands came up to scrub at his frame but his movements were stiff and systematic, almost as if he were unwilling to fully relax.

Carefully, Soundwave reached up and pressed the hand with the cleanser on one of Jazz’s shoulder pauldrons, careful to avoid aggravating healed welts as he proceeded to go through a process that had been practiced more than enough times in the past. The saboteur tensed for the first few strokes but he eventually relaxed, frame going lax as he stared listlessly at the opposite wall.

Rivulets of dirty solvent formed on the floor beneath Jazz’s feet, turning an odd pale pink as Soundwave cleaned him with sure and careful fingers. He was careful to avoid all points on the saboteur’s frame that Jazz had demanded be excluded and when he finished, he rinsed his servos and prepared to allow Jazz the opportunity to finish his own cleaning on his own.

But he’d only taken a step back when the silver mech’s EM field unfurled completely, slamming into Soundwave like a runaway convoy and very nearly unbalancing him. For a telepath, it was difficult not to notice the nuances of the mech’s emotions, of the pain and anger and self-loathing circling around such a tiny frame, far too much for any normal mech to carry.

Soundwave ignored it at first, believing the revelation had been some kind of slip up but when the field pulsed insistently against his own, Soundwave knew it was intentional.

Suddenly, leaving him alone didn’t seem like a good idea.

“Jazz, unwell?”

It was a simple question but for the confusion and the look on Jazz’s face, it seemed to be anything but.

Shuffling his feet, Jazz shook his helm. “That’s a stupid question.”

Perhaps. But Soundwave knew better than to delve into a mech’s personal matters without direct invitation.

“Cleaning, required.” Soundwave said, hoping to ease the awkwardness in the air by directing their attention to something more systematic. “Jazz, must be maintained.”

“Maintained,” Jazz breathed, a mirthless smile spreading across his face. “What am I, another one of your side projects? Another trinket you have to fix?”

Soundwave said nothing but continued his ministrations.

Something in the silence between them broke, and suddenly Jazz slapped away the telepath’s hand away. Soundwave stiffened minutely, hands falling from the other mech’s frame to linger in the sparse space amongst themselves.

“I’m not broken,” Jazz all but hissed. “And I don’t need anyone fussing over me like I’m about to break down.”

Soundwave’s optics narrowed slightly, memories of the orn rushing through his mind. “Jazz, impertinent.”

Jazz grimaced at the telepath’s tone. “Really, now?” He pivoted on his heels and turned to face the mech, hands balled into fists at his side. “Is that what you call what I did? A disrespectful little inconvenience?”

The saboteur pointed to the door behind them. “I got us results, mech. While you loiter around in here, sticking to the shadows and playing with your little bits of scrap, I have to lay down in a berth and fight the urge to slagging offline myself. You’re acting like you’re not of the greatest fragging espionage experts out there, who could sneak past me when they decided to really put in some fucking effort in the middle of a fragging war zone.”

Soundwave stiffened when a look of exasperation momentarily replaced the fury on Jazz’s face. “You’re acting like you’re afraid,” the saboteur said. “Tell me, what are you afraid of Soundwave?”

Soundwave stared at Jazz intently, processor working three timed as hard as it struggled to process the conversation and line up an answer that coincided with his programming and personal protocols. But he kept coming up empty and he simply stood there, speechless.

Jazz waited but eventually his patience waned and he scoffed derisively. “Alright, then.” He stepped back as much as he could, until his back hit the wall with a soft clang. “Don’t tell me.”

It was obvious that this was where the silver mech intended to end the conversation and his body language screamed at his desire to be left alone but something, some small little prickle in the back of his neural net, kept Soundwave standing there.

A klik later Jazz fixed a stern glare in his direction and opened his mouth to say something, an insult perhaps, but Soundwave was faster in voicing the question that he had been unknowingly teetering on the tip of his glossa.

“Soundwave, unclear of Jazz’s intentions.” His head tilted down to stare at the saboteur’s hands, and the memory of those digits grasping his own mere orns ago flashed through his memory. The prickle became more prominent, digging its tendrils just a little deeper in his processor.

Jazz’s optic ridges knitted behind the glass of his visor. “What?”

“Credits, easily obtainable via other methods,” the telepath intoned. “Example: stealing, much more effective.”

Jazz scoffed again, arms crossing over his chestplate and shoulders rising up and down in a disbelieving shrug. “Are we still on that fragging topic? What’s so hard to understand?” He eyed the larger mech with much more scrutiny, his astute SpecOps training kicking in as his optics gave a slow languid sweep of the blocky frame and old subroutines mapped out the telling little tics in the telepath’s body language.

His visor glowed a little brighter as something caught his attention and suddenly his lips twitched into a knowing smile. Helm leaning forward, he asked, “what is it exactly you want to hear, Soundwave? That I fragged a mech into stasis and stole his credits? Or does your morbid necessity to know every little detail have you wanting the detailed version? The one where I let him put his hands on me and pretended to be swooned as he stumbled over his words? Where I got on my knees and—”

“Silence.” Soundwave’s own symbionts froze in the other room as soon as the word left the telepath’s mouth, all five cassettes taken back by the sheer ferocity lingering behind the expression.  

Even Jazz found himself trailing off, lips parted slightly in surprise. But he wasn’t the former head of SpecOps for nothing and catching his slipup, he eased back into his defensive posture and shrugged off the surprise as if it hadn’t happened.

“I knew what I was doing.” Jazz said, looking at anything but Soundwave. “I had everything under control.”

“That is not the point.” Soundwave said.

Jazz looked at him, the change in diction catching his attention. Soundwave took full advantage of the sparse moment of attention and condensed the odd feelings in his systems in the simplest manner he could think of.

“Jazz, believed to be injured. Symbionts...worried.”

Through the bond, Ravage let out a dry cough of a laugh but she was immediately quieted by the harsh shushing of the rest of her siblings.

A disbelieving glimmer flashed across the glass of Jazz’s visor but it slowly melted into the warm glow Soundwave had learned to identify as amusement. A dry chuckle escaped the saboteur and he reached out to turn off the solvent spray. The knob squeaked horribly and the showerhead sputtered a few times before cutting off the cold spray. A few drops landed on Jazz’s helm, but the saboteur paid them no mind.

“Careful,” he warned, smiling. “Don’t go telling me that stuff now, Sounders. Cause it almost makes it sound like you’re starting to care.”

The telepath reeled slightly at the wording but he couldn’t find it in himself to disagree. Perhaps there was truth to the saboteur’s words; after all, Jazz had saved Frenzy. It was in Soundwave’s nature to be fair and loyal; the act of saving one of his symbionts was something he didn’t take lightly and after all the effort put into fixing the silver mech, it was possible he might have created some odd subroutine branch that was fixated on keeping Jazz safe.

The thought of the saboteur befalling harm made him uneasy. But to his own surprise, he found that he didn’t really mind the odd concoction of emotions.

Of course, he didn’t dare mention such thoughts out loud. But they still ran vigorously through his mind as the moment passed and he eventually found himself settling into his place against the wall for his recharge cycle. In the dark silence, he could hear the sound of Jazz’s gentle ventilations and if he focused just enough, he could see the outline of the mech recharging fitfully in the berth on the opposite end of the room.

An empty cube of high grade was down on the floor, inches from Jazz’s fingers that were attached to an arm thrown gracelessly over the side of the berth, strewn on its flank with the few remnants of the pink liquid spilling onto the floor. Soundwave knew the alcoholic imbibe would stain the alloy if left there and it was in his best interest to stand up and clean it up so the damage wouldn’t get added to their growing list of grievances with the motel manager.

But the truth was Soundwave was too tired to move and it was taking all of his energy to even keep his optics online. And...he felt, irrationally, that if he moved, he’d somehow end up disturbing Jazz’s recharging cycle and that was the last thing he wanted at the moment.

Eventually, he grew tired of dismissing the warnings on his HUD demanding that he defrag his systems and allowed the warm embrace of recharge to wrap round him. But as he felt his optics begin to shutter and his processor slowly drifted offline, a stray aberrant little thought popped into what little remained of his consciousness.

Jazz had a very nice smile.


	25. What Happened In Uraya: Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now, my dear readers, we arrive to the smut I have frivolously been trying to justify with plot.

_“Falling for you was like falling down the stairs._

_I was in complete control at first, then,_

_Without warning I was spinning, tumbling,_

_I had no idea why or how. Then, before I even knew what_

_happened, I lay at the bottom: shocked, stunned_

_and so oddly aware that I still ended up exactly where I was_

_trying to go._

\--K. Towne Jr.

 

 

“Who’s Recoil?”

The question was asked loudly, curiously, and it shattered the awkward silence in the room like a well-aimed bullet.

Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing immediately, a few tensing in apprehension while the rest did so out of unsuppressed shock. Red and gold optics focus on the one who asked the question, narrowed in distaste, but he was oblivious to them all, red optical band focused on the silver mech whose knee he was balanced on and who was currently helping him paint over the scuffs and transfers he’d received after an orn out on the streets.

Jazz’s hand faltered for the tiniest of moments before it continued with its work, carefully guiding the brush and following the outlines of the tiny symbiont’s armor.

“No one important,” he replied after finishing with his work. Glancing up to look the tiny symbiont in the optics, he forced a smile for him. “Just a mech I used to know.”

Rumble frowned. “Before the war?”

Jazz hesitated, “In a way.” There was a note of finality to his tone and he was quick to scoop the tiny cassette off his knee and onto the floor. Thankfully, Rumble proved to be more adept at reading social cues than his siblings gave him credit for and he quickly dropped the subject, thanking the saboteur for his assistance before scampering off to where Frenzy was reading a datapad and showing off his new paintjob.

Ravage and Soundwave kept to their own respective tasks on the opposite end of the room but their gazes lingered on the saboteur, noting how the corner of his mouth had tilted slightly downward after Rumble’s question as he cleaned the paint from his hands with a damp rag.

Laserbeak had been waiting patiently for her turn a few feet away and when Rumble finally left, she hopped on over, trying and failing to nip at her younger sibling’s legs, and settled on Jazz’s knee.

Immediately, Jazz’s demeanor changed. Half of his mouth tilted upwards in a half smile, visor flashing warmly.

“Hey, Beaky.” The nickname was horrible and had any other mech uttered it to her, the aerial would’ve most likely clawed their optics out, but Jazz said it with an undertone of affection reserved mostly for her and she happily reveled in the warmth of his attention.

She leaned forward to nip at his chin, cooing softly and Jazz let out a small laugh. “Looking to get your paint touched up too?” 

Laserbeak chirped in affirmation.

“Alrighty, then.” Glancing to the side, Jazz looked for the tiny tube of black paint from the limited assortment and grabbed it, popping it open to make sure the paint inside was usable. “Got a brush I can use?”

Laserbeak glanced towards Soundwave, gold optics hopeful and after a moment of contemplation, the telepath subspaced one and the aerial eagerly retrieved it. Jazz was just as, if not more, careful with Laserbeak’s wings, one hand gently holding them up while the other touched up the black lines on her delicate platelets.

Unlike Rumble, Lazerbeak allowed herself to be guided and handled gently and she had the decency to trill a laugh whenever Jazz made a few lame attempts at humor. In the end, the task was done and the aerial glided to the floor and spread her wings out to catch a glimpse of her new paint. 

Jazz tilted his helm to one side, pretending to be intensely scrutinizing. “Looks decent.”

Lazerbeak nodded in affirmation and she squawked a couple times. Immediately, Ravage swept in to translate.

“She said thank you.”

The saboteur didn’t look at the feline but he nodded. “Figured.” He smiled a bit wider and said, “it was my pleasure, Beaky.”

When the red and black symbiont made her way back to her usual place at the head of the berth, Jazz rubbed his hands together and said, “that’s it. Jazzmeister’s detailing shop is closed for the rest of the orn.”

He picked up the tools and briefly wandered into the washracks to clean them and his hands and when he emerged, he grabbed a cube of Energon from the tiny refrigeration unit and then went to settle down comfortably on the berth. His hands fumbled in the sheets for a while before pulling out the remote for the monitor screen and he switched it on, quickly lowering the volume so as not to disturb the other members of the room.

There wasn’t anything interesting on, nor was there ever, but after a bit of channel surfing, Jazz settled on an old documentary about mechanimals. It was in black and white, narrated by a mech with a bad case of vocalizer rust, and held little to no facts, but the cinematography was interesting enough.

When it got to the segment on cybercats, Rumble and Frenzy whooped and bombarded Ravage with questions like whether or not there actually were breeds who could spew acid from their mouths and why she hadn’t been graced with such modifications.

For a moment, the feline was inclined to indulge her sibling’s inane questions. But her patience eventually wore out and she took to ignoring them until they shut up. The two weren’t affected by her cold shoulders and eventually they found themselves hopping into the berth and settling next to Jazz for a better view of the screen.

The saboteur was wary, carefully crossing his legs at the ankles and clasping his hands in his lap to avoid any unnecessary touching.

It wasn’t anything against the two symbionts, he was just uncomfortable when it came to physical contact, especially when it didn’t pertain to killing or fragging a mech.

Rumble and Frenzy took heed and settled in a pile at the foot of the berth. Soundwave observed their interactions carefully, reminding the twins to behave through their quantum bond. They sent pulses of affirmation in turn.

In the end, the documentary came to an anti-climactic finale and their chronometers indicated that the night cycle had begun. Another orn had passed, spent in secrecy and hiding, but nobody had the gall to complain. Soundwave went out to run a few errands and when he returned, everyone was already deep in recharge.

Well, mostly everyone.

Jazz sat in front of the radiator, hands outstretched with his palms facing the old appliance. He glanced up when Soundwave entered, a tired look on his faceplates. “You’re back.”

Soundwave glanced around the room once before nodding. “Affirmative.”

“That’s good, right?” Jazz was gesturing to the bundle of credits in Soundwave’s hand and the telepath unfurled his fingers to showcase them better, nodding.

“Sufficient funds, allocated.”

Curious, Jazz tilted his helm forward. “Really?” It was difficult not to notice the waves of relief swirling around the telepath, nor to miss the brightening of his optical band when he knelt down on one knee and counted out the currency for the saboteur’s benefit.

“Where did you get them?” Jazz asked once he finished, lowering his voice so as not to disturb the other occupants. 

Soundwave hesitated. “Trade and barter.”

“Trade?” Jazz asked. He huffed, amused. “We don’t exactly have things of value lying around.”

The telepath’s shoulders rose and fell in a haphazard shrug. 

Jazz could sense something was amiss with the ambiguous response but he let it slide, far too tired to delve into what he knew would be a futile argument. Instead, he focused on warming his hands, humming contentedly when the warmth of the radiator transferred into his frame and the ache in his wrists was slowly abated.

The sound of hissing hydraulics indicated that Soundwave had taken a seat beside the saboteur and while the mere presence of the telepath would’ve rubbed Jazz the wrong way, he didn’t feel the familiar unease creep into his frame. He felt, oddly, content.

“Jazz, experiencing pain?” The question was more formal and curt, part of their routine conversation, and the saboteur pretended not to mourn the passing of their previous interaction. He nodded once in response to the question and gestured to the inside of his wrist with one finger.

“It kinda feels like the joint’s cramping up,” he explained. “when I move it, it’s fine, but when I’m recharging, it kinds grows cold and begins to feel sore. I figured warming it up might help a bit and it does but this position doesn’t do my back any favors.”

He paused, preparing to list off all the other reasons he was sitting where he was but the sudden warmth of the telepath’s fingers on his hands cut him off. Silent now, he watched as the blue digits of one of Soundwave’s hands cradled one of his hands while the index finger of his other one lightly traced the protruding joint of his inner wrist.

The touch was light, soft, barely noticeable, but for Jazz it felt almost like someone was dabbing at his protoform with a live hot circuit wire.

An odd warmth blossomed in his chassis as the touches grew firmer and when Soundwave’s hand shifted in a way that made a blue thumb brush across his exposed wrist, Jazz found himself pulling his hand back with enough force to make his shoulder creak.

Soundwave stood frozen for a moment, caught off guard by Jazz’s sudden retreat. Then he withdrew his hands back into his personal space, an apologetic flare in his EM field. 

Jazz cradled his hand against his chest, shrugging. “It’s okay,” he said lamely, unsure of the sudden fluster that was sending his internal temperatures up at an alarming rate. “You just jostled a sore node.”

“Apologies.”

Swallowing roughly, Jazz nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

If Soundwave noticed the oddity of the response, he didn’t mention it. Instead, he moved to the place he normally recharged in and settled down, pretending to be counting credits until Jazz finally took the berth once more. Only then did he allow himself to drift into stasis.

The next orn, news of their full credit allocation was relayed to the symbionts and all five of them expressed nothing but relief and satisfaction that their stays in small dingy inns were finally over. They made plans to leave, gauging Jazz’s physical readiness before deciding on making the two orns journey to the small shuttle station on the uppermost levels of the city. It was a different station than the one Jazz and Soundwave had used to arrive, situated in the middle of a busy space-port that was teeming with security and vendors.

Luckily, the ID cards given to them were still useful and all Soundwave had to do was alter the photos to befit their current physical appearances.

This, unfortunately, was more difficult than it seemed. At least in Jazz’s opinion.

“You’re the Decepticon poster child.” The saboteur said, one hip leaning against the edge of the desk the telepath was currently working at. “You can’t just wander into a space port and expect no one to recognize you, even with a fake ID.”

Soundwave glanced up from the rewiring he was doing on the metal projectors of the holocards, shoulders taut. “Difficulties, understood.” Normally, he would’ve been inclined to tell the silver mech to back off but Jazz was in an uncharacteristically good mood and far be it from him to discourage those easy smiles.

“You gotta at least change up your paint job,” Jazz said. “Or change the color of your visor. I liked the purple one you had when we first came, it made you seem scarier.”

“Noted,” Soundwave deadpanned.

Fortunately, Jazz seemed satisfied with offering only a few lines of advice. After he was done, Rumble and Frenzy were the next ones graced with his company. They were busy diving up the Energon rations, deciding who carried what and how exactly they were going to make just a few cubes last two orns for all of them.

Jazz observed quietly for a few moments before adding in his two cents, explaining that so long as they each all had 50% in their tanks, they ran no risk of shutdown or other nasty issues that resided with a lack of energy. After a bout of simple math, the rations were divided and as the night cycle dawned upon them, so were the IDs.

Now, they simply had to wait until morning to make their move.

All of Soundwave’s symbionts jumped into his docking chamber for the night, murmuring excitedly as they waited to transform and dock, and even once they were in place, their exctiment was left tingling in the air around their host mech.

Jazz settled on the berth, finding a comfortable positon among the sheets before preparing to shut off his visor and descend into recharge. But something stopped him. It wasn’t anything visual, though, it was more like a feeling.

He glanced over at Soundwave, who’s helm was visible as he once more settled on the floor leaning against the foot of his berth, and a wave of guilt swept over him. Jazz couldn’t discern where it came from or why it chose that particular moment to descend but once it did, it latched onto him and wouldn’t let go.

Grimacing slightly, he shuttered hid optics and tried to will himself into stasis but that didn’t do him any good. So, he did the only thing he knew would actually let his conscience rest a little easier. 

“Soundwave?” He asked into the darkness, voice a whisper. 

A rumble sounded and it took Jazz a moment to realize it was from Soundwave. Apparently, he’d been on the brink of recharge before Jazz had spoken up.

Swallowing roughly, Jazz lifted his helm and asked, “Do you want to rest on the berth?”

“...negative.” The pause before the answer caught Jazz’s attention, his well-honed communication skills alerting him of the telepath’s fib.

“You need to be well rested for the journey.” Jazz said, voice soft. “And besides...if I scoot over a bit, I think we can squeeze you in here.” That was a blatant lie, of course, but the saboteur knew that Soundwave’s spinal strut would definitely appreciate one night of resting fully on his back.

For a moment, Soundwave didn’t answer and Jazz feared that he’d fallen into stasis but then the familiar sound of hydraulics alerted the saboteur of a moving mech and in the darkness, Soundwave’s silhouette appeared, red band dim and flickering as he hovered on the edge of the berth.

Jazz scooted over, thankful that his flimsy temporary armor took up little space, and created a space that truthfully, would probably only fit ¾ of Soundwave’s entire mass. But somehow they made it work. Soundwave was tired, on the brink of shutting down, so he wasn’t too focused on boundaries and etiquette. He squeezed in next to Jazz, laying on his side and facing the saboteur with nothing but mere atoms separating them.

The saboteur expected to feel uncomfortable, uneasy, but the warmth of Soundwave’s frame was drawing him in and his aching joints and healing struts reveled in his proximity. Soundwave’s visor flickered off with a buzz and Jazz was briefly left alone for a moment. He took the time to observe Soundwave’s faceplate, taking in the details he’d never been able to fully see in his past encounters with the telepath.

He was close enough to see the myriad of tiny little marks that littered the white alloy, of the hastily repaired dents and scratches he’d no doubt earned from his fights over the years. It seemed that the former communications officer wasn’t a vain mech because all of those little points of damage could easily be replaced with a trip to a body shop and perhaps a new made-to-order replacement for his worn facemask.

Everyone was doing it. Wheeljack, Powerglide, hell, even Optimus had his own battlemask replaced so that the reminders of his past injuries wouldn’t tarnish his newly minted image as political leader of the planet.

But yet Soundwave hadn’t.

The light from Jazz’s visor traced over a welt situated near the edge of Soundwave’s jaw, right where his neck cables met the taut tensiles. Immediately, the saboteur recognized it for what it was and his Spark gave an unexpected lurch at the memories the long-healed injury unearthed. 

It was an execution wound, placed just right so that it bisected the main fuel line that connected the processor to the Spark, all intents and purposes for a clean, precise kill. 

Jazz would know...he was the one who’d given it to him. Back when the beginning of the war had left the Autobots violently desperate and an odd stroke of luck had allowed them to capture the elusive telepath, whom they’d sent directly to SpecOps for interrogation.

Soundwave had been stoic, resistant and it was the first time Jazz had seen the telepath as something of a rival, a bot who complemented his own unique gifts for espionage and violence. But Jazz had been young and naïve during that time. And instead of implementing techniques that actually worked, he’d taken to torturing Enemy, one of Soundwave’s old symbionts.

The tiny mech had refused to give up information so Jazz had cut Soundwave’s fuel line and Enemy had all but listed out all the details that led to the Autobots finally equalizing their footing on the battlefield. Jazz hadn’t expected those who rescued Soundwave to have succeeded in saving him but now, eons after, the saboteur was grateful towards them.

It was his sentimentality talking, of course, but there was no one present that he had to defend himself to. These...feelings were but a few traitorous thoughts that would no doubt be forgotten once recharge finally overtook him. So, it was okay.

His fingers itched to trace the contour of the scar but he stubbornly held himself at bay. That would be crossing a boundary that he didn’t have the Spark to cross anymore.

So instead, he settled as comfortably as he could, inhaling the soft metallic smell that enveloped him like a blanket of security, and offlined to the warmth and gentle thrumming of Soundwave’s presence.

 

~~~

“What are they doing?”

Jazz and Soundwave glanced back at the sound of Frenzy’s voice, the former curious and the later cautious, optics landing on the red and black symbiont that had halted in the middle of the plaza with a curious glint in his optics. His brother stood beside him, gawking around like some youngling fresh out of the well.

Frenzy was pointing to the line of mechs putting up stalls on the outskirts of the circular area and as the two larger mechs watched, they immediately noticed that a few of the bots were handling what appeared to be large multicolored wreaths and pinwheels, placing them in decorative positions along the erected booths.

Soundwave hummed, “Unknown.” He glanced around once, then added, “Questions, not recommended. Schedule, must be kept.”

“It’s the new vorn celebration.”

Now it was Frenzy’s turn to look surprised at the sound of Jazz’s voice but the saboteur wasn’t looking at him. He was focused on a pair of mechs that were setting up what appeared to be an Energon refining machine, though the glowing multicolored flasks of liquid indicated that it probably served some other obscure purpose.

“New vorn?” Rumble asked.

Jazz’s visor brightened as he turned to regard the tiny blue mech and nodded. “Yep. I’m not much of an expert on Uraya’s celebrations but the pinwheels and the refining machine over there were a huge part of celebrations in Polyhex.  The pinwheels represent time, and how it’s always moving. And the refining machine has a setting that turns Energon into a sticky candy-state, kinda like taffy back on Earth but sweeter. It’s a one orn event, usually celebrated during the night cycle, and it’s where bots meet in the center of the city to commemorate the start of a new vorn and show their appreciation for the past one.” He smiled softly, seemingly enthralled. “It’s one hell of a party.”

The twin symbionts were silent for a moment, sharing a glance between them with gaping mouths, but then they let out oohs and ahhs of excitement.

“That’s so fragging cool!”

“I wanna see that!”

“Soundwave, can we?”

Soundwave huffed, exasperation in his tone. “Negative.” He admonished lightly, lowering his voice so only they could hear him. “Destination, must be reached.”

Immediately, the two mini’s faces fell and they begrudgingly agreed with their host mech’s orders. Satisfied, Soundwave gestured for them to follow and continued on his way but he hadn’t walked two steps before he realized Jazz wasn’t following.

“Jazz.” He said sternly, glancing at the silver mech over his shoulder.

The saboteur hesitated, glancing between the booths and the three bots expecting him. Finally, he placed a servo over his chest and said, “y’know, a little rest wouldn’t hurt us. We’ve been walking for joors since we left the inn, and the shuttle isn’t going to leave until two orns from now.”

Soundwave wasn’t fooled by the mech’s words and he shook his helm. “Jazz, fully capable of continuing trek. Request, an excuse to watch celebration.”

Jazz’s shoulders rose and fell in an innocent shrug. But when he spoke, there was a certain tone to his words, a soft longing that Soundwave had yet to hear from him.

“We have a pit stop scheduled right an orn from today,” he began. “How about we switch it to right now?”

Immediately, Frenzy and Rumble perked up at the offer but were careful to hold their excitement in and instead stared dutifully up at their host mech.

Soundwave’s shoulders were tense, helm making furtive little movements as he saw the assembled bots and blossoming decorations, and he looked anything but excited. But something in his symbiont’s EM fields caught his attention and glancing down, he focused on their faceplates.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he gave a defeated sigh and nodded.

“20 joors.” He said, quickly stepping in before the three insistent bots celebrated. “20 joors of rest, then journey shall continue.”

Jazz smiled. “That’s more than enough time,” he said. It didn’t escape Soundwave’s notice how excited he was at the prospect of the upcoming celebration and that somehow seemed to abate his frustration at the detour.

“I’ll find us a place to crash,” Jazz said. 

Rumble immediately held out his hands. “Wait! But we don’t have any money!”

The saboteur simply grinned. “During times like these, there’s always a way to appeal to bots’ hospitality.” With that, he gave a small salute and turned on his heel.

Sharing a look between them, the two symbionts wasted no time in chasing after the mech, demanding to know just exactly what he’d meant by that statement.

As soon as the three of them were out of sight, Soundwave drifted to a secluded corner and ejected Ravage, who was all but knocking his docking chamber inside out. The feline landed on the floor gracefully, stretching luxuriously before turning to face her host mech with an amused look on her face.

Soundwave frowned. “What?”

Ravage shrugged a shoulder, taking a seat beside him. “Nothing.” Her EM field pulsed with mischief as she watched the activity in front of them and the telepath rounded on her, knitting his with hers and all but demanding that she say what was on her mind.

Eventually, she did. 

“He’s got you wrapped around his finger.” 

“Who?”

The feline glanced up at him with an unamused stare. “You know who.”

Soundwave pondered the statement for a moment before coming to its conclusion and he calmly shook his helm. “Negative. Ravage, confused.”

“Am I?” She asked, and there was a stern tone underneath her playful words. Careful what you respond, she was all but saying.

The telepath didn’t dignify her question with an answer. He knew where he stood with the former Autobot, after all. They were merely partners, assigned to the same mission and working together to overcome the adversity that befell them. Soundwave had only saved his life to repay him for saving Frenzy’s. Nothing more, nothing less.

Their brief conversation came to an end when a pulse from Rumble echoed through the quantum bond, his eager voice explaining that they’d somehow managed to book a room pro bono in a small tavern and that they should “hurry their afts over before the keeper changed his mind”. 

Both complied, eager to leave the conversation on the backburner for the time being.

The room wasn’t the best but it certainly was a step up from what they’d been accustomed to. They’d left the cluttered center of the city and stopped in a small township that resided on the fringes of the industrial sector so the population was less concentrated. As a result, hospitality was in slightly more abundance, especially with the celebration just around the corner.

At least, that was how Jazz described how he booked the room. Soundwave knew the saboteur had traded something in exchange, because hospitality was never a good currency, but it wasn’t credits.

He hoped it wasn’t a favor.

“This berth is amazing.” Rumble crooned, settling in the middle of it and spreading out his arms and legs. “It’s just big enough so we could all fit on here.”

Jazz, who’d been analyzing the weird artwork on a wall, scoffed. “You really think I’m gonna give up my berth rights?”

“You’re not _that_ hurt anymore!” Rumble retorted, standing up and pointing a finger at the saboteur. “You don’t need an entire berth to yourself.”

“Says who?” Jazz quipped, crossing his arms over his chest and grinning.

“You let Soundwave share it with you last time and you seemed pretty well rested despite it.”

Jazz pretended not to notice how everyone else flinched at the blue symbiont’s words. “Soundwave’s not a crazy recharger. You, on the other hand, are like a mini tornado.”

“Am not!”

“Are too.”

“Are—umph!” Rumble flailed uselessly as Ravage jumped onto the berth, her tail intentionally slapping against the back of her sibling’s knees just hard enough to unbalance him and send him straight to the floor.

“That’s enough out of you.” She said, peering over the edge at him.

Rumble groaned as he picked himself up, rubbing his injured cheek. “That hurt.”

“Where are your reflexes, bro?” Frenzy teased, jumping in beside the feline. “You’ve fallen from higher places.”

The blue symbiont huffed indignantly. “Frag off.” He looked around the edge of the berth to peer at Soundwave, who’d leaned against the back of the door and was observing everything with a careful and collected air. Hoping to snap him out it, Rumble held out a hand towards him.

“Boss, tell them it’s not right to pick on your favorite!”

The sheer impact of every other symbiont’s offense at the phrase through the bond was enough to momentarily bring the host mech out of his thoughts and he shook his helm in exasperation. “Soundwave, has no favorites.” He intoned, injecting a bit of warmth into his words.

Ravage snorted.

Jazz laughed. “Obviously,” he remarked, and when Soundwave turned to look at him to reply, half of the saboteur’s visor dimmed into a wink. It was quick, easily missed if he hadn’t been paying attention, and Soundwave was sure it was done in good spirits. But it did funny things to his insides, an odd warmth erupting near his Spark.

He dismissed it as an anomaly and instead focused on his bickering symbionts. Eventually, they settled down and everyone took the time to refuel, rest and recuperate from the first leg of their journey. Soundwave and Jazz kept to opposite ends of the room, but the telepath could feel Jazz’s presence even with all of his attention absorbed on Rumble’s explanation of why he was the favored out of all the lot.

The night cycle drew near and with ten joors left of Soundwave’s ultimatum, the sounds of celebration drifted in through the windows and when they all looked, it took them all a moment to take the entire scene in.

The streets were slit with an odd orange glow, which originated from the variety of pinwheels that were positioned in several key points along the streets leading to the center of the plaza. They twirled endlessly, the center bulb a constant red with the petals alternating between purple and blue.

Booths were up and fully operational and from their post, they could see that the Energon refining machine did indeed live up to its name as vendors sold sticky Energon of various colors twirled around a stick. Younglings pranced around with the delicacy close to their mouths, smiling with each bite and giggling as bits stuck to their nose and cheeks. Even the adult framed mechs were indulging in it, optics bright as they tasted and devoured right alongside their younger counterparts. Other posts sold artisans and pinwheels, other varieties of treats, and some even offered temporary tattoos. But regardless, there was color and decoration everywhere, no glimpse of the normal dull grey alloy of the streets and walls anywhere.

There wasn’t too much of a crowd, not like there normally would be in a big industrial city, but there’s enough bots to create a gentle buzz of conversation in the air.

Rumble and Frenzy let out startled gasps. “There’s so much color.”

Jazz, who was peeking from one of their flanks, nodded. “Never expected Urayans to be so...festive.”

Frenzy tore his gaze away from the scene to look up at the saboteur. “Think they know what happened?”

The silver mech shrugged. “Probably not. And if they do, more than likely they don’t care.”

It was a heavy comment but Jazz didn’t allow them to linger too much on the subject because he knelt down and pulled something out of his subspace, handing it to Frenzy who accepted it with an inquisitive tilt of his helm.

“What’s this?” He asked, though he didn’t need to because once he opened his hand to see the credit chip in his palm, it was quite clear.

“Where did you--?" 

“Don’t worry about it.” Jazz said, rising to his full height. “Just go.”

Rumble glanced at Soundwave, a hopeful glimmer in his visor. “Can we?”

Soundwave sighed. “Affirmative. Symbionts, required to keep a low profile.” He held up a hand when the twin bipeds prepared to scamper off, and added, “High Grade, not allowed.”

The two symbionts groaned but otherwise acquiesced to the request to keep themselves out of the spotlight. Once they made their way out, Ravage cast a knowing look at her host mech and sprinted to catch up with them.

Soundwave took the opportunity to eject Lazerbeak and Buzzsaw, who all but exploded out of the docking chamber with chirps and trills of excitement. They offered no greeting to either of the bots and glided out through the window, lingering just long enough in the air to catch their unsuspecting siblings by surprise.

Eventually, they disappeared into the crowd, former espionage capabilities kicking in as they weaved silently through the masses.

Jazz watched for a moment before turning to look at Soundwave. “You going to join them?” 

The telepath shook his helm. “Negative.”

“Oh.” The saboteur frowned slightly.

Something in his tone caught Soundwave’s attention and he watched from the corner of his optic as Jazz walked away from the window and headed towards the exit.

“Jazz, is going where?”

The silver mech shrugged, “The keeper said they’re offering free drinks down at the bar.”

“High Grade consumption, not advised.”

“There’s plenty of drinks to choose from,” Jazz retorted, one side of his mouth rising in an amused smile. He raised a hand and placed the other over his chestplate. “I promise not to get overcharged.”

Soundwave didn’t believe him. “Soundwave, will accompany.” Best to join him and make sure he didn’t get into trouble. 

To his surprise, Jazz didn’t argue against the notion. Instead, he held the door open a little wider and gestured for the telepath to follow with a quick jerk of his helm. “Well, come on, then. We need to leave now if we want to find some decent seats.”

Soundwave resisted the urge to sigh.

~~~

 

The tavern was not the most luxurious of places but there was something to be said about the small bar housed on its ground level. It was rustic, with small tables, a glowing wall of drink assortments and a soft atmosphere that was a stark contrast to the festivity on the outside.

There were quite a few bots already indulging but the two mechs were able to find a small table in the corner, right where the two windows of the establishment intersected. Jazz took the seat against it while Soundwave sat across from him.

It wasn’t the most comfortable fit; Jazz was small enough to squeeze in but Soundwave had to bend over the small table, the blue stabilizers of his knees peeking up around the edges when he sat down in the chair. His fingers were clasped over the surface, index finger thrumming softly as he glanced around with an awkward air.

Jazz snorted, “You gotta relax, Sounders. You’re in the middle of a celebration.”

“Negative.” Soundwave replied. “Caution, must be upheld.”

“I can understand that.” Jazz nodded, “but let the kids have this.”

“Kids?” Soundwave asked, the use of the word confusing him.  

Jazz waved a hand in the air, “your minions. Symbionts. Whatever you call them.” He sighed, “They’ve been through a lot. And...given what we know now, chances are they’re probably not going to see something like this for a while.”

Soundwave narrowed his optics, clearly not liking where the conversation was veering. “Jazz, spurred their curiosity.”

It was true and Jazz made no attempt to deny it. “Maybe. But you’re making it sound like I convinced them jumping into a smelting pool was ‘cool.’”

The telepath wasn’t fond of the image of his symbionts diving head-first into a boiling vat of liquid slag so he was quick to move the conversation along. “Distractions, increase potential for failure.”

“Yeah, I know.” Warmth fading slightly form his EM field, Jazz rose and walked over to the bar to pick up some drinks and he returned not long after with two glowing cubes, one red and the other blue.

Soundwave could only stare as the red drink was placed in front of him. “High Grade, not--.” 

“—Not recommended.” Jazz finished. “Yeah, I know. It’s not High Grade though. Just try it.”

Carefully, Soundwave cupped the drink in one hand and brought it up, faceplate snapping back and allowing him to take a tentative sip of the imbibe. It felt cool in his mouth at first, with a sweetness that was favorably pleasurable. But when he swallowed, a sharp tingling sensation crept up along his mouth, lighting up his oral receptors with an odd hot/cold feeling and he parted his lips to let out a small exvent to relieve it.

Soundwave found that he liked it.

He glanced up, fully intent on voicing his newfound like, but he found himself falling into silence when he caught sight of the saboteur’s face.

Now, Jazz was a mech of many expressions and his capacity to emulate a variety of emotions was astounding. Soundwave had seen most of them during the war, from his anger to extreme exultation, but the look of curious awe he was sporting then and there was certainly new.

It took Soundwave a moment to realize why.

“You took off your facemask.”

“Affirmative.”

Jazz hummed, his fingers around his blue cube tightening. A breath of a laugh escaped him. “How is it that we’ve been with one another for more than a couple quartexes...and I’ve only seen your face once?”

Soundwave shrugged. “Face, not intentionally being hidden.” 

The saboteur took a swig of his own drink, then rolled the liquid around in the clear cube to watch the copper shavings on top move around. “Then why wear it?"

It wasn’t an intrusive question, honestly. During the war, facemasks and visors had been donned as a necessity rather than a personal preference by many bots. Unless there was a specific infliction that spurred the upgrade, most bots tended to be open to sharing the details.

But as Soundwave allowed himself to think, he found that he wasn’t quite willing to answer the question. He had an answer but not a very good one. 

“Reason, unknown.”

The deflection was not lost on the saboteur. “I see.” He glanced down at his drink and smiled, briefly and without any humor.

Then he lifted a finger and tapped it against the edge of his own blue visor. “I got mine assigned to me when I was enlisted into SpecOps. To improve my marksmanship and timing.”

Soundwave had figured as much. Jazz had made performed some astounding assassination feats that had made the telepath speculate whether or not he’d had frame modifications. It was gratifying to see that he’d been correct.

A sharp boom sounded outside, and both mechs immediately froze, visor bright and flaring with attentiveness until Jazz glanced back and found the source of the disturbance. In the distance, barely visible over the rise of buildings, he could see the multi-colored explosions littering the air, forming shapes and words across the navy expanse. He kissed his dentae and chuckled uneasily, turning back to face the telepath.

“Fireworks.”

It took a second for Soundwave to verify this for himself before he relaxed and retook his seat. 

They sat in a slightly awkward silence after that, occasionally drinking or discreetly turning their helms to listen to the other patrons’ animated conversations. The joors ticked by, their time in the happy bubble of celebration slowly waning, and it was with only five joors left that Jazz decided to break the stillness between them.

“I never thanked you, did I?" 

Soundwave tilted his helm to one side. “For?”

“Saving me.” Jazz struggled a little with the words, derma beneath his visor turning a darker hue than normal. “Y’know, repairing me and waiting in that slagheap until I got better. All that stuff. I never thanked you and I feel like I should.”

He briefly pursed his lips, took a deep breath, and looked the telepath straight in the optics. “So, thanks.”

Soundwave dipped his helm.

A soft smile spread over the saboteur’s lips at the gesture. “Man, never thought I’d be saying that to a former ‘Con.”

Mention of their old faction names made Soundwave’s visor brighten for a moment and Jazz lifted a placating hand. “I mean it in a good way. I mean, sure, I accept the armistice and the peace between the factions and everything but I never imagined that I’d actually have something to do with somebot I used to trade blows with, y’know? I mean, OP gets bonded to Megs, then there’s Skyfire, Starscream and Blue and TC and I’m just sitting on the sidelines wondering how the heck everyone’s doing it.” His optic ridges furrowed slightly. “I guess I was just biased.” 

“Biased?”

The saboteur hesitated. “Yeah.” His optics drifted to his almost empty cube and he stared at his reflection with a somber air.

“There was a bot I used to know during the war. A friend, you could say, but he turned out to be a traitor. Pretty much became the basis for how I judged all other ‘Cons.” He scoffed. “Probably a lot harsher than I should’ve.”

Soundwave remembered the designation that the saboteur had murmured during his time in stasis, that name he couldn’t quite pin down but which seemed to be so deeply engrained in the silver mech’s memories.

“Recoil?”

Jazz started and he glimpsed away for a moment before nodding. “Yeah,” he said, voice uneasy. “That’s him.”

A quick scan of his internal databanks once more pinged back negative. “Designation, not in Decepticon archives.”

His lips twitching into a forced smile, Jazz replied, “I don’t expect him to be. He wasn’t officially affiliated. One orn he just decided that the Autobots weren’t the right bots to be fighting for and he turned on every mech that placed their trust in him and tried to make a run for Decepticon territory.” Voice dropping an octave, Jazz grimaced. “He didn’t make it very far, of course.”

“Recoil, terminated?”

Jazz raised an optic ridge and shrugged. “You could say that.” His hands tightened around his imbibe, the glass cube creaking under the pressure. “I was the one who interrogated him when he was caught. He laughed, spat in my face, told me I was gullible for believing in him. Then I dug my hand into his chest and ripped his Spark out.”

Extending a hand, Jazz twisted it so that his palm was facing upwards and his visor dimmed as he analyzed the rough surface, fingers trembling slightly. Eventually, the deluge of memories became too great and his digits curled into a fist, free hand grabbing his drink and downing it in one gulp.

Somewhere along the bar, a bot laughed and the boisterous sound rippled throughout the establishment, making a few bystanders chuckle and other guffaw. But Jazz didn’t even glance up to see what had spurred the humor, hunched over his empty drink while a finger traced the edge of the glass.

Soundwave felt his Spark clench in his chestplate, even though he wasn’t entirely empathetic to the saboteur’s emotional trauma. He’d had mechs he’d admired turn out to be less than he’d expected but in a faction riddled with deception and double-crossing, it wasn’t that much of a surprise.

But his thoughts drifted to Megatron and his vitals coiled as he recalled just how much it’d hurt to see the leader he’d dedicated his life to, throw everything away to become the very thing he’d forsaken.

Perhaps he understood Jazz more than he realized.

Possibly that odd common ground was what fueled his next action, the inspiration that led to him reaching across the table to gently lay his own hand over the saboteur’s and give it a squeeze of reassurance.

Jazz froze, eyeing their clasped hands for a moment before slowly glancing up to look at Soundwave. He was speechless, lips parted with nothing coming out, and all he could seem to do was swallow roughly.

But he didn’t move his hand away.

Instead, he allowed his fingers to unfurl, slowly, carefully, until their hands slotted against one another with an ease that was unbecoming of former enemies. One of Jazz’s fingers brushed against Soundwave’s inner wrist and the telepath was surprised to find that he didn’t mind the contact. In fact, an odd warmth seemed to seep into his plating everywhere the silver mech touched, reaching down deep into his protoform until he felt it in his very struts.

His thumb traced a seam on the mech’s palm, gently following the curving contour to where it met a scarred wrist joint. Glancing down, Soundwave allowed himself to study the saboteur’s hands and it was the first tie he actually noticed just how many imperfections were crisscrossing the silver alloy. Most welts were superficial but he came upon a few that he knew were strut deep, places that debris had dug into his frame and all but tore him apart.

Following the length of Jazz’s arm, Soundwave’s gaze eventually came upon the saboteur’s face. To the dim visor and the blue derma just underneath it.

Jazz bit his lower lip. “What are you looking at?” He asked softly, gaze darting between him and the table.

“You.”

The simple word did funny things to Jazz’s EM field, which had unfurled and slowly trickled towards the telepath, nudging at the edge of his and silently asking for permission to mingle. Soundwave, intrigued, allowed the contact and he froze as he felt Jazz’s presence mesh with his, warm and inviting. His own EM field eagerly threaded against the other, creating a two-way conduit that allowed each of them to gauge just exactly what they were feeling.

Soundwave’s was teeming with curiosity and a subtle warmth that very few bots, save for his symbionts, ever got to experience and Jazz reveled in it like the affection-starved mech that he was.

Meanwhile, Soundwave was made privy to the deep-seated sadness that Jazz carried with him like a second armor, the profound kind that was now such an integral part of his programming. But there was a soft hope lingering underneath it, it’s origin unknown, that kept it at bay and allowed the silver mech just enough energy to continue smiling.

The telepath found his interest piqued and allowed his exposed lips to twitch into a soft smile.

Immediately, a hot flash of arousal assaulted him, nearly knocking him out of his chair and he froze, confused. His telepathic capabilities allowed him to recognize that the sensation wasn’t coming from him and was, in fact, Jazz’s.

The saboteur hesitated once he realized that Soundwave had felt the new sensation but he made no move to indicate that he was backing off.

“You can tell me.” Jazz said finally, voice lowered so only Soundwave could hear. “Tell me to back off, right here, right now and I’ll do it. No questions asked.”

It took a moment for Soundwave to process the request, to decipher the hidden meaning that the words carried. He knew what Jazz was asking for and while the subliminal invitation was unexpected, it wasn’t unwelcome.

Soundwave wasn’t one to dabble in interfacing. It was pleasurable, of course, but only for a few brief moments and the toxic fallout of such dalliances usually curbed the initial euphoria. He’d surmised that it was an activity best left to desperate veterans and eager lovers and seeing how he fell into neither category, he’d abstained for most of his life.

Even when he had fallen in with the occasional berthmate, the carnal desire had never truly transcended past the physical need for release. But now, it flickered, briefly, faintly, a stark contrast to the raging inferno he’d heard described in romances and poetry. It wasn’t causing his panel’s temperature to skyrocket, his Spark wasn’t a beat away from bursting out of his chest and his internal fans weren’t kicking on without his permission.

But it was there.

That warmth he’d felt in his chest before, fluttering softly. It just needed encouragement and reassurance.

He discreetly checked his internal chronometer. “Four joors remaining until departure,” he informed, voice soft.

Jazz blinked a few times before jerking his helm back slightly, a soft “oh’ of understanding escaping his lips. “Yeah,” he replied, helm lowering. “Almost time to go.” 

His grip on Soundwave’s hand lessened and he made a move to pull it back but the telepath found himself tightening his hold, refusing to lose the small tentative contact. 

Jazz’s helm jerked up, optics wide behind his visor. Something clicked inside of Soundwave when their gazes locked, something he couldn’t quite identify, but it was enough to make him rise to his feet, keeping their hands entwined, and give Jazz’s arm a gentle tug. 

The saboteur didn’t hesitate before complying, allowing himself to be led through the mass of bots, up the flight of stairs that led to the floor of rentable rooms, down the hall and past the door that led into the tiny room they’d taken up for the past joors. 

In the darkness of the tiny space, they stood in front of one another with their hands clasped, gazes locked and frames seemingly frozen. Neither of them was exactly sure of what to do, eager to let the other make the first move, but their entwined EM fields pulsed with a concoction of emotions that indicated that they were at least on the same page. 

Eventually, it was Soundwave that took the initiative and he let go of Jazz’s hand. His other very gently cupped the saboteur’s cheek, thumb gently tracing the crisscrossing scars of old wounds on his cheek. 

Jazz let out a shaky exvent, leaning into the touch with shuttered optics. His lips gave the briefest of twitches, barely noticeable in the dim lighting, but Soundwave could tell that he was smiling. 

Soundwave smiled too and he bent down, bringing their faces close enough so that he could press a soft kiss to the tip of Jazz’s nose. It was just a small peck, a metaphorical dipping of his toe into unknown waters, but it made the saboteur shiver in response. 

Emboldened, the telepath traveled downward, caressing the soft derma with his lips until he came to the corner of Jazz’s mouth, and there, he planted another kiss. He could vaguely taste the metallic sweetness of the blue drink Jazz had been indulging just minutes ago and he hummed at the pleasant taste. 

Jazz let out an impatient little huff and turned his helm, finally pressing their mouths together. An odd sound resonated in the room, as if something had unexpectedly fallen down, and it took the telepath a moment to realize that it was them. He’d pushed Jazz against the back of the door, both hands cupping the silver mech’s cheeks as he returned the kiss as enthusiastically as his partner was and his frame pressed up insistently upon the smaller mech’s. 

There was no longer any hesitation. As the nanoseconds passed by, their lips moved over one another in sync, soft and yielding, with the occasional breathy exhale passed between them. Jazz parted his lips and he felt the hot slide of Soundwave’s glossa along his lower lip, tasting, testing, and he moaned softly, hands groping blindly for a few moments before snagging whatever part of the telepath they could reach. 

It felt amazing. 

Jazz had been with many mechs over the vorns of his existence, experienced and felt everything from the softest touch to the most brutal of handlings and each one had taught him that his frame took gentle coaxing to get a genuine reaction. He could fake pleasure, obviously, pretend to be in the throes of ecstasy when in reality his processor was counting down the kliks it would take his partner to finish but such was not the case in this situation. Their panels hadn’t popped open yet and already he could feel a liquid warmth pooling in his belly, his Spark twirling and surging and demanding for more. He’d expected an awkward fumbling, perhaps even to discover that they weren’t even physically compatible, but this...this was so much more than he’d ever imagined. It was warmth and pleasure and just felt so _right_. 

Pulling back from the kiss, Jazz took a brief klik to steady his ventilations and to look up at Soundwave’s face. To his surprise, the telepath was also panting, lips parted and visor a bright vermillion. He looked just as debauched as he felt. 

Carefully, so as not to shatter this precarious new dynamic they were creating, Jazz lifted a hand and pressed it over that red optical band, caressing and silently demanding. He felt a sudden inexplicable desire to see more of Soundwave’s face, to pull down what remained of the walls that stood in between them.

Soundwave understood the silent request and he slowly pressed a finger to the side of his helm. With a small hiss, the optical band shut off before receding upwards and Jazz suddenly had to grab onto one of Soundwave’s shoulders as the sight nearly had his knees buckling underneath him. 

Jazz knew the telepath had a pretty face, he’d seen it only once but the memory had stuck with him ever since, and so it really shouldn’t have been a shock when he got a full look at what lay beneath both mask and visor. 

But damn him if it didn’t have him swooning. Soundwave’s optics were wide and uncharacteristically expressive, burning a deep golden color that reminded the saboteur of the warm tropical sunsets back on Earth. It warmed him from helm to the tip of his fingers and he couldn’t resist bring a few fingers up to lightly trace their contours. 

His lips twitched into an amused smile. “Why on Cybertron do you keep these hidden?” 

Soundwave shuttered his optics once, the edges crinkling as he smiled in turn. “Reason, unknown.” 

Jazz’s finger followed the seam just underneath his optic, all the way down to where it met the corner of his mouth. He grinned. “It’s better like this,” he reasoned softly. “The world doesn’t deserve to see them.” 

The tinge of possessiveness in the saboteur’s tone did funny things to Soundwave’s insides and he bent down to capture his mouth against him. Jazz melted into the contact, happily and easily finding his rhythm in this dance. If he’d known just how good it felt to kiss the telepath, he would’ve ditched his interrogation tools and jumped into his arms when they’d first crossed paths.

Their hands grew a little bolder as time went on; Soundwave’s were cupping the back of Jazz’s helm, pressing their lips together just enough so that their dancing glossas could easily reach into and explore each other’s mouths. Jazz’s dug into the seams of his torso, pinching and caressing wires until he finally found a soft spot that had the normally stoic mech gasping and pulling away. 

Empowered, Jazz’s engine gave a nice low throaty rumble. “Too much?” He playfully taunted, leaning back against the solidness of the door behind him. 

“Negative.” Soundwave breathed and he deftly shifted his weight and pushed a knee in between Jazz’s legs and forced them apart. 

Jazz grinned, unfazed. “Good.” He pressed down against the telepath’s thigh, rubbing his rapidly heating panel on the smooth white alloy with abandon, his gaze never once leaving Soundwave’s. “Cause I’m just getting started.” 

Soundwave glanced down between them to watch the erotic sight of Jazz’s swiveling hips, golden optics wide and yearning, but he didn’t get enough time to fully appreciate the view before Jazz grabbed his sidevents and pulled him down into yet another wet and messy kiss. 

It appeared that they were both fond of kissing. Fond of the indulgent teasing feel of one another’s derma sliding against the other, of the tingle of their tangoing glossas and sharp nips on one another’s lower lips. But time was running short and the impatient edge to Jazz’s EM field indicated as much. This was a dance they were both familiar with and they understood that if they ever wished to reach its finale, now was the time to take the next step forward.

They’d finally reached the breaking point. They could put an end to this here and now, appreciate the brief bliss and move on with their mission to see it finally through. Or they could keep going, create a new, unknown future for their precarious relationship and see where it took them. Maybe it would work out, maybe it wouldn’t, but they’d face whatever destination awaited them. 

Soundwave was prepared to ask the question out loud, for formality’s sake, but he hadn’t even fully pulled back from the kiss before smaller but insistent hands were laid across the glass of his docking chamber, pushing him back, back...until the edge of the berth hit the back of his knees and he was sent sprawling onto his back on the plush gel-padded surface. 

Jazz loitered for a few moments, optics roaming appreciatively over Soundwave’s frame before he caught the telepath’s gaze and offered a predatory grin. 

“You’re fucking amazing,” the saboteur growled, crawling on top of the berth with his hands and knees; he paused on his way over Soundwave, helm leaning down every now and then to press open-mouthed kisses on seams and exposed joints, the tip of his glossa peeking out to add a searing warmth that made it difficult to keep still. The telepath’s panel was rapidly warming up, spike all but begging to be released and his valve walls weakly clenching on nothing. 

Soundwave could feel Jazz smile as he lay a kiss on one of Soundwave’s hip buttons, his hand hovering over his closed spike panel to gauge just how much the stimulation was affecting the blue mech. He gave the white button a playful lick before lifting his upper body up, hand never moving from its position as he straddled Soundwave’s thighs. 

“How do you want me?” Jazz asked, breathless. His optics were a little crazed, and it was obvious he was pouring every last ounce of patience he had remaining in him to simply ask the question. 

Soundwave normally would’ve hesitated when being asked such a query. Normally, he was more inclined to use his valve, finding its lack of use and sensitivity to be more beneficial for a quick and dirty frag. But when the thought popped up in his mind, it suddenly seemed so wrong. 

This, whatever it was, wasn’t something sordid that needed to be completed as quickly as possible. He wasn’t pinned underneath a mech demanding an overload and hoping the brief bliss would momentarily chase away the nightmares that haunted their fitful defrag cycles. 

He was with Jazz. His foil, his complement, the only mech who had the physical and mental capacity to match him in intelligence and skill. And they were both here because they wanted to be. Because _he_ wanted to be. 

He wanted to make the saboteur lose control, to drive into him until he was moaning and clutching at him, his smooth timbre creating a melody of ecstasy as he was pushed into a blissful stupor.

“Valve,” he responded quickly, hands clutching at silver hips and pulling the smaller mech up until his valve cover was seated directly over Soundwave’s spike panel. “Soundwave, desires Jazz’s valve.” 

Jazz groaned, the sound deep and low and primitive in his chest. “Keep talking like that and I’m gonna overload on that pretty voice alone.” 

Placing his hands on the berth on either side of Soundwave’s helm, Jazz bent down to connect their lips together again, his actions more furtive and demanding. Rational thought was quickly making an exit and instinct was all that remained, making their hips swivel and grind against one another until sparks were created, making Soundwave’s hands slither back until they cupped Jazz’s aft, making Jazz pull Soundwave’s glossa into his mouth and give it a gentle suck. 

Eventually, they parted and Jazz balanced himself on one shaky arm. The other grabbed one of Soundwave’s hands and boldly pulled it in between his legs, encouraging those strong blunt fingers to explore and stimulate with an impatient rock of his hips. He rolled his hips down and bared his valve in the same go, rivulets of sticky charged lubricant dripping down onto Soundwave’s alloy and making a delicious molten heat pool in his array, vents flaring to expel blistering air and fans jumpstarting to life with a noisy whir. 

But it was the sensation of Soundwave pushing a finger against the clenching rim of his valve that had his hands curling into the sheets of the berth, soft gasps escaping him as the oft-touched nodes flared to life with a vengeance. 

It’d been so long since Jazz had a tryst like this. The kind that made him want to go slow and steady, touching and kissing until he and his partner were going crazy with arousing need. With Prowl, it’d always been about forgetting. Of losing themselves to one another’s frame to forget their losses and find solace in the intimacy that interfacing brought upon them. Jazz had always been the one who’d been forced to take the lead and while he reveled in being able to make his partners scream, he’d always been partial to giving a trusted lover full control. 

Of simply being able to revel in the pleasure another brought upon him. 

Soundwave’s EM field completely enveloped him as he worked a single finger in and out of him, pushing past his folds, caressing nodes and swirling the lubricant around to make penetration easier. A few nanoseconds later, Jazz felt the pressure of a second finger entering him and the delicious burning sensation of his stretching mesh made him arch his back, a wordless cry of pleasure escaping him. Briefly, his hands uncurled from the berth and fumbled behind him, grabbing onto the stabilizers of Soundwave’s knees and allowing him to lean back enough to change the angle. 

His valve now on full display, Soundwave was able to lift his helm and watch as his fingers slowly slid in and out of the saboteur’s port. 

It was quite the sight. The white valve lips were swollen, with a glowing blue anterior node that pulsed in tune with the thrust of his blue fingers, flashing brighter and faster with each passing moment. Jazz’s lubricant was clear and smelled of charged ions, sweet and tangy on the telepath’s glossa. 

Soundwave felt a rush of oral lubricant invade his mouth, wanting nothing more than to bury his helm between the saboteur’s thighs and savor what he knew would be delectable treat. But his aching spike seemed to strongly protest the thought, attempting to snap out from behind the cover and finding it’s escape foiled by the locks Soundwave had placed upon his panel. 

It hurt and the telepath wasted no time in snapping his cover back, allowing the aching spike to finally emerge and jut against the saboteur’s aft.

Jazz jumped lightly in surprise but upon realizing what had happened, he rumbled appreciatively and swiveled his hips just enough to caress the head, the familiar telltale wet tingle of pre-fluid marking his armor.

“Color me— _ah_ —impressed.” Jazz moaned, a mischievous smile on his face. 

“Jazz, comfortable?” Soundwave asked through gritted dentae, struggling to divide his attention between his query and the task of working a third finger into the saboteur’s valve. 

Despite the vague question, Jazz understood what he’d meant. Grinning, he nodded. “I’ve taken mechs a little bigger than you,” he replied. “You...shouldn’t be a problem.” He let out a yelp as Soundwave twisted his fingers, curling into himself slightly as a sharp pleasure-pain danced across his haptic net. The pain receded quickly, leaving only pleasure, and Jazz felt his calipers ripple a little more insistently around those blue fingers lodged inside him, ceiling node all but begging for attention. 

Finally, Soundwave pulled his fingers free and a fresh gush of lubricant trickling onto dark blue Carefully, the telepath placed his damp hands on Jazz’s thighs, slick fingers massaging the soft alloy.

“Jazz, ready?”

The saboteur glanced down at him and shifted his position, leaning his upper body back down, his elbows on either side of the telepath’s helm and hands fisted into the covers. He pressed an insistent kiss against those irresistible lips.

“Sounders, if you keep asking questions I’m gonna lose my fragging mind.” He rolled his hips, catching the head of Soundwave’s spike with the rim of his valve and clenching his thighs on the sides of the host mech’s hips. His cheek pressed against Soundwave’s, gasping exvents harsh and loud in the telepath’s audial. “I want you. I fucking want you and I _need_ you.”

That was all Soundwave needed to hear. 

Turning his helm to press his face against Jazz’s neck, he roughly gripped silver hips and thrust upwards into the warm wet heat.

Soundwave’s spike slid in easily, aided by the copious amount of lubricant and preparation, and had there been more time, he probably would’ve done it a thousand times slower. Taken his time to ease in, lighting up each individual node in the fluttering vale one by one, dragging out the contact until the saboteur was mindlessly begging to be fragged.

But time was something they didn’t have.

Jazz whole body arched beautifully as Soundwave pushed his way inside, silver hips moving in terse little jerks as he strove to pull the spike deeper into his valve. One more thrust and Soundwave was seated to the hilt, a whimper escaping his lips as the stretch and gathering charge between them did delicious things to his struts. Jazz’s calipers greedily cycled around Soundwave’s spike and when he finally regained enough sense to move in counterpoint, the head of the spike caressed his ceiling node and it took all of the saboteur’s effort not to overload from that alone.

Shivering, Jazz glanced down at his partner and his Spark fluttered at the sight of those alluring faceplates twisted into a look of mutual bliss and concentration. Desperate to see just how much he could affect the telepath, he wasted no time in placing his hands on Soundwave’s belly and began to push himself up and down, feeling the spike move easily within him and hitting him exactly where he wanted it. Sometimes it would slip away when he lifted himself up but Soundwave would thrust upwards again at exactly the same time he dropped back down and it’d hit the delicious spot once more. Over and over and over...until the pleasure built and heat was racing up their spinal struts with each rapid thrust.

Eventually, Jazz’s legs began to tire out and he began rocking in place, reaching down in front of his frame with one hand to tiredly caress his anterior node and prevent the built up charge from disappearing. There was an uncomfortable ache in one of his hip joints but Soundwave felt so amazing and the saboteur didn’t want to stop.

Fortunately, Soundwave, while blissfully focused on the feel of the saboteur’s valve working his spike, noticed Jazz’s loss of rhythm immediately and he stopped moving.

Jazz whined. “What’re you doing?” He drawled, voice laced with static. He tried to move again but the pain in his joint increased and he hissed slightly at the unwelcome ache.

Hands steady on Jazz’s hips, Soundwave murmured, “Jazz, trusts Soundwave?”

The saboteur paused, glancing down at him with dazed but confused optics. “Wha--?”

“Jazz, trusts Soundwave?” The telepath nearly bit his glossa trying to form the words.

Jazz frowned and scoffed, leaning down to press their foreheads together. Looking deep into Soundwave’s optics, he smiled softly and said, “With my very Spark.”

The exhaled murmur moved Soundwave into action. 

With the grace and dexterity that’d made him a fierce warrior on the battlefield, the telepath spun them around, careful to keep their frames connected, until Jazz’s back was on the berth and Soundwave was now the one looming over him.

The new position made Jazz’s optics brighten and he reached up to grab Soundwave’s shoulders, trembling fingers digging into the alloy while his hips parted just enough to comfortably cage the telepath’s pelvis.

Their EM fields were heavy with need, crackling with heat and arcs of blue charge simmered along their seams. 

Soundwave stared down at the saboteur’s face, golden optics soft as he caressed Jazz’s cheek with the back of his hand, revering and appreciating.

“Jazz: beautiful.” The telepath intoned softly and Jazz was momentarily stunned by the admission. But he quickly got over it and grinned.

“I know,” he whispered cheekily, leaning his helm up to press a chaste kiss to the corner of Soundwave’s mouth. Then, he pressed his hips up and down, cycling his valve calipers to get the large blue mech moving again.

Soundwave’s hand clenched into a fist beside the saboteur’s audial, a warble of static escaping him as the stimulation reignited his arousal, charge once again alive and vibrant. He slid his spike out slowly, gold optics rapt on the saboteur’s face, and just before the head popped out of the first ring of the valve, he thrust in once more.

He repeated the process again and again, reveling in the feeling of lubricated metal sliding against each other and the sound of Jazz’s wanton little cries. Soundwave gasped and grunted, biting his lip to keep his own voice from ruining the symphony Jazz’s was currently making.

A blue visor glanced down at the place where their arrays were conjoined and the sight, coupled with the slick sounds accompanying their movements, made Jazz gasp and he tipped his helm back and exhaled a litany of praises. Soundwave took the opportunity to mouth the saboteur’s neck, dentae scraping along those taut cables and glossa licking and sucking over the various scars and welts that covered them all without ever stopping the movement of his hips. He could taste the saboteur’s arousal, could feel how close he was to tipping over the edge, but he was stubbornly holding back. 

Inspired, the telepath increased the tempo of his thrusts, one hand supporting his weight and the other curling around Jazz’s hip to pull him back into each forward thrust. Jazz gasped, spinal strut arching as each penetration suddenly had Soundwave’s spike slamming against his ceiling node, catapulting him to new heights he didn’t know he could experience. The air around them shimmered with heat, the quiet room punctuated by the stridency of their whirring vents and the loud clanking and squelching of their joined frames.

The familiar tension of overload was coiling in the saboteur’s belly and his optics widened, legs rising up to cross against the back of Soundwave’s thighs. This caused the angle to change, allowing Soundwave to reach in just a little deeper and he met the telepath’s gaze. “Sounders—I think—I’m gonna--.”

Optics half shuttered in arousal and mouth open and panting, Soundwave looked exactly as Jazz felt. Leaning down, the blue host mech pressed their mouths together in a sloppy kiss, glossas coiling around one another and dentae sharply nipping and pulling at one another’s lips.

The sound of hissing hydraulics sounded and vaguely, Jazz was aware of a small notification on his HUD, asking for permission to unlock his chestplates. Instinctually, Jazz knew what that entailed and his frame was wracked with a violent shiver of anticipation; he conceded, ignoring the small tickle in the back of his mind and focusing only the sensations he was currently getting.

Blue light suddenly flooded the room and Soundwave glanced down to see mismatched armor plates transforming back, a familiar blue orb peeking through the seams. Engine revving, he proceeded to do the same with his own chestplates, gold mixing with blue, continuing to kiss and lick whatever part of Jazz was closest to him.

The sensation of their orbs’ energy fields touching made both mechs stiffen, optics wide as a new different pleasure coursed through their frame, momentarily overriding the physical. Jazz gaped, hands digging into blue armor, and his optics were a kaleidoscope of emotions as he stared his lover head on.

Soundwave gasped. “Jazz, sure?”

His baritone was low and throaty and the wavelengths traveled down his frame, doing funny things to the place where they were connected and Jazz couldn’t stop himself from moaning and clutching at the host mech like he was his last lifeline in the world.

“Yesyesyes...” He breathed, bringing their faces down to one other to kiss. He could feel his charge skyrocketing, lost in a sea of sensations and stars.

A few more thrusts and Soundwave found that he couldn’t hold back any longer. He wrapped his arms around Jazz, crushing their chestplates together, and pushed himself to the hilt just as overload wracked his frame and he released hot spurts of transfluid into the saboteur’s convulsing valve.

Jazz cursed harshly, stiffening and mouth widening in a soundless scream as his calipers clamped down hard on Soundwave’s spike as he followed the telepath over the edge and into blissful oblivion. His visor flared white, hands clutching tightly at Soundwave’s broad back and mouth tasting stars.

Blue and gold Sparks hesitated for a moment and then thin tendrils of ethereal matter snapped towards one another, whirling and circling until the two became one. The connection between their life forces crescendoed into a new source of euphoria and they fell into a colorful expanse of bliss as another overload, more powerful than the last, simultaneously wracked through their frames. Metal dented under eager fingers, dentae gritted hard enough to cause Sparks, and as the two lovers shivered and trembled together, they saw flashes of color and light dance behind their optics, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

For a moment, they seemed to float in an endless expanse of nothing and everything, passion and affection burning deep within their souls like the kindling of a newly formed star in a new universe. It was just them, everything, and nothing else mattered.

Soundwave gasped when he finally came down to reality, hips undulating as he gently guided them through the remnants of their overloads before letting out a heavy sigh and collapsing onto his elbows and knees. They lay against one another heavily, twitching and trembling, still connected as closely as two bots could ever hope to be. Optics shuttered, Soundwave turned his helm and nuzzled his nose against Jazz’s cheek, breathing in his scent and the hot smell of ozone and overload.

Jazz leaned into the contact, a sated smile on his face. “You’ve ruined me,” he breathed, voice laced with pleasurable static. His arms loosely embraced the telepath’s boxy frame and his hands traced the seams of his armor with an affection that made Soundwave’s Spark swell. 

“Ruined?” Soundwave whispered, amused.

Jazz laughed, the sound doing wonders to the place where their frames were still connected. “No one’s every made me feel like this.” He sighed, closing his optics. “I could spend the rest of my life right here...and I wouldn’t mind one bit.”

Soundwave hummed, the sound itself not offering much in way of an answer. But Jazz, drunk on post-overload bliss, was already falling into recharge and try as he might, Soundwave himself unable to do anything but follow. His optics felt heavy, frame sluggish, and it was by sheer willpower that he pulled out of his partner and rolled off of him just in time to fall into recharge as soon as his frame hit the damp sticky covers of the berth.

~~~

“Do you think they’re awake?”

“Shhh!”

“What? I don’t wanna get yelled at because we missed our exit window.”

Jazz let out a grunt of annoyance as the soft little voices floated into his memory influx, shattering the happy little utopia of his and slowly pulling him back into consciousness. He was on his side, back aching something awful, and he felt both warm and cold on various parts of his frame.

Vaguely, he felt something prod at him at his cheek and he tried to swat it away, only to end up accidentally poking one of his shuttered optics. The pain jolted his systems to full alertness and his visor flickered online only to be met with the grinning façade of Rumble.

The symbiont waved. “Hi.”

“What are you—OH SLAG.” Jazz flailed wildly, arms and legs kicking and tangling in the sheets as he struggled to come to terms with his surroundings. His hand slammed against something warm and soft beside him and once he hoisted himself up on his elbows, he was able to get a good look at where he was.

Soundwave was deep in recharge beside him, face uncovered and dried traces of oral lubricants dotting his chin. Silver paint transfers littered his frame and the telltale smell of dissipated ozone and dried lubricant streaks on his thighs told Jazz everything he needed to know. 

He could feel the ache in between his legs, the dents and sticky patches along his plating, the sweet metallic taste of the telepath still on his glossa.

But that wasn’t what was unbalancing him. It was the six symbionts standing on the edges of the bed, surrounding the two utterly debauched mechs with knowing looks and quirky little grins. Ravage had a look of exasperation she stared at her still-recharging host mech and her red optics darkened when they meet Jazz’s.

“You fragged him into stasis.” She said simply and the way she said it made Jazz feel self-conscious.

“Yeah,” he muttered uncomfortably, picking up a pillow and placing it in his lap. “Guess I did.”

“Well that sucks,” Rumble said, crossing his arms over his chest. He pretended to check the time on his wrist, an Earth custom he was too fond of to shake. “Cause we’re four joors past our schedules departure time and unless we find a way to make it halfway across the city in an orn, we’re going to miss our scheduled shuttle.”

The simple blasé manner in which the words were spoken made the saboteur frown. He hadn’t really thought about what he was going to say to the little guys after this whole ordeal, mainly because he hadn’t anticipated anything actually occurring. But now that he was here...it was surprisingly oblique.

Glancing at Ravage, he asked, “So, what? You guys aren’t going to interrogate me? Accidentally leave me behind for fragging your host mech?”

The feline stared at him for a moment before flicking an ear. “He wanted to. You wanted to. The only problem I see here is that you two were far too desperate to wait until we actually got out of here.” She jumped onto the bed and sat by Soundwave helm, leaning down to sniff his forehelm. She rumbled, pushing a paw against his side vent until he too roused from his slumber.

Soundwave was considerably calmer as he awoke, golden optics groggy as they came back online. A flash of surprise crossed his optics when he met Ravage’s and it quickly morphed into a stern shake of his helm. 

“Journey, must be continued.” He announced, rising to into a sitting position. Rubbing at his optics, he glanced at Jazz and the saboteur half-expected some of the warmth from the previous few joors to linger in those golden depths. 

But they were cool and collected, visible for only a split second before the red optical band snapped back down and the white battlemask slid into place.

Something in the atmosphere changed then and there, a subtle shift that was not seen but easily felt. It sent a chill down Jazz’s spine, a stark contrast to the warmth he’d been feeling just joors before. But he said nothing, knowing that the mission was more important than...whatever they had lingering between them.

Soundwave and Jazz washed themselves in the washracks, inches apart but with a heavy silence that made it seem like there were lightyears between them. When they finally left the township under the cover of darkness, they did so in silence and not even Rumble nor Frenzy had the heart to crack jokes or talk about the scene they’d accidentally arrived to.

It was odd and Jazz combed through his memories to try to figure out what he did, what happened that made such a perfect moment go wrong but nothing popped up. He remembered the Spark merge, felt the ache of the recent residual overload on the glass casing surrounding his blue orb, but it’d been brief and over quickly. 

Nothing had been passed between them other than a few emotions and as far as Jazz could tell, they’d all been nothing but positive. 

But maybe that was the whole problem. 

The easy familiarity between them was gone now and while there were no hostilities, Jazz didn’t feel comfortable doing anything other than follow and listen. 

When they finally arrived at the shuttle station, just moments before their schedules departure, a spasm of fear gripped his Spark. They were finally going back home. 

To Iacon. 

Where they wouldn’t have to be in each other’s company any more and more than likely they’d be assigned to different missions to delve into the conspiracy of Pion’s murder. And...they probably wouldn’t see each other again.

He couldn’t stand the thought of leaving things as they were.

When they boarded and took their seats by the window of the shuttle, Jazz took the opportunity to make a move. He reached out to grasp a couple of Soundwave’s fingers, face blank as he lifted his helm to stare into the red optical band.

“Sounders...”

The fingers in his hand were pried from his grasp. Gently, softly, in a way that was startlingly similar to how a caretaker reminding their youngling that they were too old to be so clingy.

“Soundwave, will deliver report.” He said, voice monotone. “Jazz, will focus on personal repairs.”

And that was where everything shattered.

Jazz had known it, deep down inside. But he’d taken one look at that red visor, those broad shoulders and uncharacteristically gentle hands and very easily forgotten.

Soundwave spared him no glances for the rest of the trip and his EM field was wound tightly around him, no more reassuring meshing offered.

They sit in silence for the entire trip, saying absolutely nothing. Not even when they left the dark grey landscape of the underground city behind and finally arrived to the orange and golden architecture of the planet capital.

And perhaps it was because that was the way things were simply meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You probably guessed I have no idea how to write smut...and you're absolutely right.


	26. A Modest Proposal

_“I looked at everyone and wondered_

_where they came from and who they_

_missed, and what they were sorry for.”_

\--Jonathan Safran Foer

 

Jazz stood on the edge of the balcony, arms resting against the smooth railing and faceplates turned towards the faux sky, watching as the artificial stars and moon shone with an eerie white glow. He could tell that the telemetry of the moon’s rotation was off by a few parsecs, that the stars followed no constellation and even the dark navy hue of the expanse behind them was far too clear to contend with its real counterpart. But he wasn’t Prowl and though he was quick to pick up on the inconsistencies of the view, he still allowed himself to enjoy it for what it was.

It was his first true moment of peace in a long while.

Ever since he’d stumbled into the berth with Soundwave, he and his little minions had been shadowing him like a predator stalking prey, keeping out of sight as he did his routine but still near enough for him to sense their presence. Even without his audial enhancements, he could hear the pitter patter of their feet in the distance, the flap of their wings and hushed whispers that drifted down from the rafters above him. Every movement he made was monitored and for a moment, he’d considered the fact that perhaps Soundwave had caught onto his hidden intentions and was making sure he didn’t do anything to jeopardize either of their standings in the household.

But then one orn, he’d gone and nearly tripped down a flight of stairs and Lazerbeak had flown out of her hiding spot in the rafters, squawking up a storm that soon had both pairs of twins making an appearance. They’d chastised him for being so clumsy and threatened to call Soundwave if he didn’t make his way back to the room at that very instant, ignoring his arguments about work still needing to be done.

As Jazz allowed himself to be herded away, he let his struggle cease and it suddenly dawned on him what was going on.

He wasn’t being spied on. He was being dotted upon.

And for some reason, that had unsettled him more than anything else.

It’d been surreal to see the symbionts providing him with Energon and treats during his breaks, asking if he was alright before scanning him to make sure he was telling the truth and slinking off to watch over him from the shadows. On occasion, they chirred and purred as they brushed past him, and the subtle affection in their fields left Jazz reeling.

But the only one who didn’t join in on the dotting was Ravage. Sure, she sometimes allowed herself to be seen around the estate, but she never directly interacted with Jazz and when he allowed himself to catch her eye, the blank look in those ruby depths made him uneasy. That, combined with everything else, left him feeling smothered and so he often pulled out excuses to get himself out from underneath their watching optics. He went on small errands with the other servants, took his recharging breaks early and sometimes called for impromptu appointments with Jespa.

They usually worked out fine but Jazz’s luck wasn’t limitless and it’d eventually run out.

During his most recent visit with Jespa, she’d dropped her usually dry warmth and looked him over with a look of grim impatience lingering in her green optics, scanner beeping insistently in her hand. She’d lingered a little too much on his chestplate and ventrum, scanning it more than a couple times and frowning at the results that she kept on getting.

When she’d spoken to him, her voice had been clipped and curt. “You’ve recently had a full frame redesign?" 

Jazz hesitated for a nanoklik before nodding silently. It did him no good to lie.

Jespa had hummed. “Well, that answers a few of my questions.” She tapped the datapad screen a few times and turned the device so that it faced him. “You don’t have the emergence protocols installed,” she stated.

“What does that mean?”

“To put it frankly? Your frame is physically incapable of going into emergence. There’s a very specific physical transformation sequence that takes place in a bot’s frame that allows the protoform to be safely extracted from their carrier’s frame without risk to either of them. It’s an old line of code, arguably obsolete, but it allows medics to avoid having to perform messy and intrusive surgery. You don’t have it and since you’re in your final quartexes, the situation is in desperate need of rectification.”

Swallowing the lump that’d risen in his throat, Jazz had asked, “How...exactly can we do that?" 

Retreating the datapad, the femme’d given a firm shake of her helm. “I can’t do anything, unfortunately. I lack the tools and expertise for such a delicate operation. However...” Jespa took a moment to think, one hand coming to rest over her mouth as her optic ridges furrowed in apprehension. She tapped her index finger on the tip of her nose, once, twice before realization sparked in her optics and she gave a firm nod of understanding.

“I think there is an option.” Jespa had paused. “There’s an old peer from my days back at the Academy. Bit of a fragger but he specializes in body remodifications and his institute houses several state of the art equipment and personnel. But there’s only one problem...”

“What?”

“He’s in Iacon.”

Jazz let out a sigh, remembering how elated he’d been to hear that last part because finally, after orns of pondering and planning, he’d finally gotten his reason for accompanying Argyrus’ trope back to the gleaming capital city for the gala. It was a flawless excuse, incapable of being directly subverted, because who would argue against the wellbeing of a carrier?

But when Jazz had made his way back to the room he shared with Soundwave, realization once again dawned on him and each step away from Jespa’s office was heavy with the weight of dread.

Because it was now suddenly painstakingly real.

He was going to have a tiny protoform to take care of in two quartexes...and the thought drained some of Jazz’s previous bravado, replacing it with an anxious fear that refused to let him recharge. So he’d taken to sight-seeing and that was how he found himself staring up at the faux stars and pretending that they were the real thing.

It helped, but only somewhat. The only thing that kept him from spiraling was the lack of optics on him at that moment; Soundwave had probably ordered his little minions to back off once he was in the room. A lame attempt at offering him privacy but Jazz couldn’t help but appreciate the gesture.

His internal chronometer gave a small ping, and Jazz checked it. His brief break was up and it was time for him to get back to his schedule. Pulling up the digital file on his HUD, Jazz gave a small huff of indignation upon noticing that his on-call status had been revoked and instead of what should have been a calm night-cycle of waiting in the servant’s break room, he now had been graced with the duty of helping the night-shift couriers clear out vacated berth rooms.

Difficult work, certainly not the kind that he appreciated being settled with, but Jazz knew better than to complain. He knew that even if his mission’s objective had changed, it never hurt to gather information while he worked up an escape plan. Empty rooms meant that their occupants were probably dead or missing, and seeing how Reverb was running a syndicate, it was easier to believe all of them had met a ghastly end.

But doing what?

Jazz rarely got the opportunity to leave the estate and his frame’s obvious changes had made it difficult to sneak around and spy on the guests. He only heard snippets from bots who passed him by as he worked and more often than not, the information mounted to be nothing more than gossip or rumors. Nothing concrete he could document for future use, unfortunately.

Naturally, that hadn’t deterred him.

Reverb had stated once before that there was a spy hidden among the ranks of Optimus and Megatron’s hierarchy and recent events had revealed that it hadn’t been Soundwave.

Normally, such a thing should have made Jazz relieved but it only made him apprehensive. Because now he realized that he was just as in the dark as everyone else, as unaware of just how widespread Reverb’s reach was. The traitor could be anyone, from old nemeses to new acquaintances and the mere existence of shadowplay made it possible that the mole probably wasn’t even aware of their own treachery.

Getting back to Iacon would only be the beginning of his problems, not the end. But what choice did he have?

When he finally arrived in the designated wing housing the rooms in need of cleaning, he shook off his morose air and tried to at least bring up the look of overall dissatisfaction he’d become known for wearing. As usual, the other mechs took one glance at him, shared a knowing look between them, and curtly told him what to do before scampering off to do their jobs.

Jazz no longer did any of the deep cleaning that required access to chemicals and the struts his frame could no longer use ever since Jespa put in a complaint to Aster on his behalf but he was allowed to do the more menial cleanup tasks. He dusted and polished, collecting trash and changing the sheets on the berths. Simple work, really, and it had him working in merciful silence, slower than his workmates probably wanted, but as careful as he could ever hope to be.

Apart from the normal clutter, he found very little in the first two rooms that he tackled and he took a small break to drink a cube of enriched Energon that he pulled from his subspace. The taste was horrible but it gave him the energy to keep going, and after a few nanokliks he was on his feet and ready to take on the last remaining room. His cohorts were finishing up the deep cleaning of the previous room, the sounds of the power cleaning tools muffled behind the closed door a ways down.

The last room on the list was at the far end of the hall, it’s door plain and lacking any sort of plaque or decoration that fortold of anybody occupying it. But Jazz’s olfactory senses had grown more sensitive over the orns and if he inhaled deeply enough, he could catch a whiff of some floral smelling wax. Remnants of the now absent occupant.

He didn’t think to knock but as soon as he pressed his palm against the matrixpad and the door slid open, the sabouter found himself wishing that he had.

The bot in the room rose to their feet with an alarmed rev of their engine, optics bright and the red blade of a small vibro-knife flashing in the light that flooded in from the hall. Jazz clamped his jaw shut to keep himself from crying out in alarm and his fingers curled into the warm metal of the matrixpad.

It took him a moment to find his voice. “Apologies, but I was told this room--.”

“I know.” A familiar voice said, and Jazz’s optics widened as the bot walked over to a lamp and flicked it on.

A warm orange hue lit up the room, allowing Jazz to get a good look at just exactly who he was talking to. His vitals curled in suspicion when he recognized her.

“Demaxx?”

The femme shrugged, retaking her place at the foot of the berth. “The one and only.”

“This room is scheduled for cleaning,” Jazz said flatly. “I’ve been told it was vacated.” 

Something in his tone seemed to rub the silver femme the wrong way because she grimaced slightly. “Is that so?”

“Yes.” Jazz felt more and more uncomfortable with this conversation as the nanokliks dragged by. He hadn’t seen Demaxx ever since she’d taken him out to run some errands in one of the bottom levels of the city and though he’d spared her no second thought, her sudden reappearance caught him off guard.

Demaxx paused. “I see,” she murmured. She cast a glance around the room and her visor brightened a bit when she caught sight of a small little cube on the desk in the corner. Rising to her feet, she went to pick it up and rolled it between her fingers.

“This is Rencium’s room.” She said after a moment of silence, glancing at Jazz over her shoulder. A sad look flickered in her optics. “Was, at least.”

Jazz nodded, remembering the unpleasant femme all too well. He also remembered that Demaxx and her seemed to also have some form of camaraderie between them and it dawned on him that Demaxx was probably mourning.

An idea suddenly struck him.

“Did she leave?” Jazz asked tentatively, hoping he could take advantage of the femme’s mixed emotions to make this whole cycle worthwhile.

Demaxx hesitated before shrugging. “In a way,” she breathed.

Jazz nodded, hands clasping behind his back as he struggled to tamper off his disappointment at such a bleak answer. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“So am I,” Demaxx said, subspacing the small cube and turning to look at the saboteur. “She didn’t deserve to be here in the first place.” Grimacing, she straightened up and let out a short huff. “I only came to pick up her stuff. You can do whatever you want with the rest.”

Jazz stepped aside to let the femme walk by, watching her carefully and being mindful to keep his EM field wound as tightly as possible around him. Demaxx didn’t bother to do that; as she brushed past, the saboteur caught whiff of the myriad of emotions lingering around her field. There was sadness and sorrow, tinged with traces of guilt and shame.

She heralded a limp that Jazz couldn’t remember her sporting and her torso and arms were littered with hastily repainted welds and scratches that caught the light in frighteningly grotesque ways. Those were the kind of wounds the saboteur remembered from the war and though his curiosity was piqued, he couldn’t fight the wave of dread that swept over him upon noticing them.

Because if bots were dying and the survivors were carrying scars he’d only seen on rescued POWs, then just what in the Pit was happening outside of the estate walls? He hadn’t heard any rumors about any fighting, much less of a war, and apart from the influx of personal care supplies, the estate’s proceedings hadn’t shifted outside of their normal operating procedures. 

Jazz wanted, no needed, to know what has going on.

He knew he’d get a stern talking to for the shoddy manner in which he cleaned out Rencium’s room but he couldn’t bring himself to care as he made his way back to the room he spent all his night cycles in, ignoring the pointed looks and odd stares he received from bystanders he didn’t care enough about to look in the optics.

Soundwave was there in the room when he barged in, alone, poised and back erect as he sat on that chair next to the open window with an onlined datapad in his hand. He glanced up as soon as the doors burst open, a few nanokliks sooner than normal but Jazz surmised that the telepath had just heard him as he was coming down the hall.

The sight of that warm red visor filled him with an odd medley of emotions. Relief, warmth, disbelief...joy. But he pushed them aside and focused on projecting the one he knew would get him results, the only one Soundwave seemed to care about ever since he’d arrived and messed everything up.

“You’re not telling me everything,” Jazz said sternly, closing the door behind him.

Soundwave tilted his helm to one side, the perfect display of honest to goodness confusion.

A small part of the saboteur wanted to believe it. But the larger part, the one who depended on logic and facts and reasoning, reminded him why he couldn’t. So, he gathered his wits and pushed on. 

“I heard a few vacancies have been popping up around here,” Jazz said, hands falling to hang at his side. “You know, the permanent kind? And I thought, for a moment, that perhaps Primus was doing his duty and taking back the scum he’d missed during the war. But then I heard that it wasn’t Primus. They weren’t disappearing.” He paused. “They’re all dying.”

Soundwave stiffened, immediately recognizing what Jazz was doing.

Jazz grimaced, fatigue making his audacity falter. “What haven’t you been telling me, Soundwave?”

For a moment, the telepath looked like he wanted to bolt but something in him forced him to relax his posture and soothe the brief pulses of franticness from his EM field. He set the datapad down and even from his place, Jazz could see the typed glyphs and blinking cursor of an unfinished message. The saboteur hoped it was important.

“Jazz, does not need to ask.”

The saboteur’s optic ridges furrowed. “What?”

Soundwave stood up, picking up the datapad and offering it to the saboteur in offering. Jazz hesitated, wary of the telepath’s open nonchalance, but he quickly walked over and took the datapad and skimmed over the screen’s contents before Soundwave had the chance to change his mind. 

In the end, it turned out Jazz had been right. The message had been important; to any other observer, the overall message would have seemed like a mundane correspondence. But there were errors hidden among the text, small and miniscule that could be forgiven if anyone other than Soundwave had caused them.

Old SpecOps subroutines popped online and Jazz quickly saw through the mistakes for the code that they were. Brief little snippets that told of Argyrus’ acceptance of the gala invitation and who he was taking along with him.

It didn’t escape Jazz’s notice that the names listed were of former Bots and Cons and none of them were of the two bots that actually mattered.

“You’re leaking the guest list?” Jazz asked, glancing up to stare at Soundwave impassively. His previous question still remained unanswered but he was careful to reserve his judgment to the end.

“Affirmative.”

Jazz’s helm gave the tiniest of shakes. “You’re missing a couple.”

Soundwave’s flickering visor was the only indication that he understood the reference. “Negative.”

“Oh, please. As if Rethelia and Reverb are going to turn down the opportunity to go into Iacon and mingle around with the Prime. You really expect me to believe that?” He skimmed the list again and settled a finger over the last paragraph, the one that spelled out the names of the couriers assigned to the politician. “And you also missed a name right here.”

Soundwave let out what sounded like an exasperated sigh. “Negative,” he replied a little more sternly.

The corners of Jazz’s mouth quirked up into a mirthless smile. “Yes, you did.” He pushed the datapad against Soundwave’s chest before saying, “I’m going too.”

“Topic, already discussed,” Soundwave warned. “Jazz, would be wise to abandon endeavors.”

If Soundwave thought that tone of voice was going to scare him away, well, then he was sorely mistaken. He’d heard worse during the war. “I’m afraid it’s out of your hands,” he replied softly. “I have to go to Iacon.”

Jazz’s wording made Soundwave pause and the saboteur took the opportunity to lay a hand over his ventrum, lips pursing.

The spike of alarm in Soundwave’s EM field wasn’t much of a surprise to Jazz but he certainly found himself taken back when the former communications officer bent down on one knee and his warm hands hovered over Jazz’s, the desire to touch and feel making them shake lightly.

That red visor burned a deep vermillion, questioning and demanding all at once. “Jazz, unwell?”

Jazz watched him in silence for a few seconds before shaking his head, his remaining hand coming to rest beside the other. “I’m fine,” he said, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. Lifting a shoulder up and down in a haphazard shrug, he added, “the bitlet too.”

Soundwave wasn’t entirely convinced. He shifted his gaze between Jazz’s face and the distended protoform beneath his hands before asking, “May I?”

“What?”

Soundwave gestured at Jazz’s hands with a soft tilt of his helm. Immediately, Jazz caught on to what he was asking and he couldn’t help but stiffen. It’d been a couple orns since their little impromptu tryst, when they’d let their feelings get the better of them and had fallen into one another’s arms like novice little lovers. It’d been sordid and dirty, and Jazz couldn’t help but remember the burning shame that’d coiled in his belly upon waking up the next orn and seeing the blue paint transfers all over his arms and legs. It’d burned away the last tingles of the pleasurable overload, leaving Jazz unable to do anything but stumble into the washracks and scrub and scrub until all traces of the telepath had been removed.

He’d left the room before Soundwave had woken up and neither of them had the brass bearings to ever bring it up again. But their previous arrangement still remained in place and they were professional enough to keep up their appearances.

They slept in the same room, cast fabricated looks of longing at each other when in public and occasionally brushed hands when they felt somebot’s optics linger on them for a little too long. 

But they’d never touched one another like they had in that moment again. Jazz, because he’d been afraid of what would happen if he allowed himself to be lulled into that makeshift fantasy and Soundwave, he assumed, because he’d understood just how foolishly they’d both acted.

It never even occurred to him that Soundwave would be the one to initiate such intimacy. But there they were.

Jazz knew he should say no. He had to. Too much was at stake for him to risk letting emotions compromise the both of them again and he had to be the better agent and push away the one distraction that was bound to keep him from achieving his objective.

But slag him, he couldn’t find it in him to say no. One glance at Soundwave, at that hopeful glimmer in his red visor, the shaking in his hands and spikes of emotion peppering his EM field, and Jazz felt himself unravel.

He hesitated slightly but then slowly lowered his hands and relented. 

The first touch was uncharacteristically timid, like a youngling petting a domesticated turbofox for the first time and fearing retaliation, and Jazz clenched his jaw to keep himself from huffing in amusement. 

The second touch however, was much much more confident. The tips of four of Soundwave’s fingers rested near the top of his ventrum, warm and soft, and the telepath tilted his head forwards as if he were trying to listen to something. After a nanoklik, the warmth of those four fingers receded and then the familiar weight and heat of Soundwave’s hand rested over his belly. 

Unlike their previous touches, this one wasn’t heavy with unrestrained passion and desire. It didn’t make Jazz’s fans stutter online or his frame warm to the point that he felt like he had a supernova star burning at his very core.

Instead, it made him feel inexplicably warm. Like the way High Grade had after a long orn, starting from the tips of his fingers and radiating inwards til the burden of the day lifted off his shoulders. In an odd way, Jazz felt complete. The weight of the telepath’s hand was like a grounding force and the saboteur couldn’t help but hum softly in acquiescence.

Was this what bonded mates felt when they were expecting their own creation?

Like, for a moment, the world was somehow coalesced into a singular point and nothing else seemed to even matter?

Jazz could only wonder. He allowed the telepath a few more seconds before taking a hurried step back, putting just enough distance between the two of them so that Soundwave’s hovering fingertips could only graze him. The bitlet sent pulses of disquietude to the saboteur as soon as the warm contact receded, tiny frame twisting around in retaliation.

Hiding a wince, Jazz crossed his arms over his chestplate. “That’s enough.”

Soundwave hesitated before nodding, hands falling to his side. “Understood.” He rose to his feet, brushing off imaginary specks of dust, and straightening his posture. In an instant, the image of reverent lover was gone and the usual stoic shadow took its place. Jazz reminded himself that he didn’t care about either and forced his mind to focus on the mission at hand.

“Jespa told me I don’t have the necessary codes to go into emergence,” he explained succinctly. “And she doesn’t have the tools to install them so she’s recommending I see a specialist in Iacon.”

Soundwave curled a fist under his chin and glanced down at Jazz’s ventrum. “Lack of codes, dangerous?”

Jazz scowled. “Of course it is. You can go ask her yourself if you don’t believe me.”

The telepath shook his helm, “Soundwave, trusts Jazz.”

“Good for you,” Jazz muttered flatly. “But I’m not really seeking your approval. This is something I have to do.”

Soundwave visor dimmed. “Cybertron, believes Jazz is dead,” he began. “Jazz, cannot return to Iacon without revealing deception.”

Jazz stared at him silently for a moment. “I’m not going to Iacon because of the mission.” He said through gritted dentae. “I’m going because I need those codes. I didn’t spend eleven quartexes carrying this extra weight around just to have it kill us both because I refused to be prepared.”

Soundwave’s hands fell to his sides. “Jazz, wishes to keep creation?” 

The saboteur froze. The bitlet had not been something either of them had talked about in depth, mainly because Jazz had refused to allow Soundwave to get any closer than he already had, and as a result, Soundwave had no concrete understanding of what Jazz planned to do in the near future. 

“That’s really none of your business.” Jazz murmured, glancing away. 

“Soundwave, merely wishes to know.” He paused then added, “To understand.” 

Slowly, Jazz turned to look at Soundwave and his face was difficult to read. “I’m not completely sure,” he admitted, shrugging. “It all depends on how everything pans out.” 

Soundwave waited for him to continue but when he didn’t, he asked, “Everything?” 

“The whole revolution thing,” Jazz explained. “Can’t exactly turn my back on everything to care for a bitlet if the world’s falling apart.” 

Something in those words made Soundwave tense, a heavy feeling coiling in his belly. “Jazz...unsure.” It wasn’t a question. 

The saboteur looked a little startled at the thinly veiled accusation but he quickly caught himself and shook his helm. “I’m not.” 

“Then explain intentions.” 

“I don’t have to explain myself to you, Soundwave.” Jazz said tiredly, rubbing his cheek with the back of his hand in an attempt to wipe off an invisible smudge. “I’m exhausted. And I’m pretty sure Aster’s heard about the horrible job I just did so I need to wake up early and try to convince him to give me some time off.” He turned to head towards the washracks but Soundwave reached out and tapped his shoulder, halting him mid-turn. 

Jazz hesitated, optics narrowed behind his visor.

“Soundwave, will offer assistance.” 

The look of guarded curiosity on Jazz’s face morphed into one of confusion.

The telepath proceeded to elaborate. “Iacon, currently in turmoil. Political rallies, riots, make travel difficult.” Soundwave lay a hand over his chest. “Soundwave, will ensure Jazz’s safety.”

Soundwave expected Jazz to argue vehemently against the proposal, maybe even demand to know what he’d meant about ‘riot’ and ‘political rallies’ but to his surprise, the saboteur merely stood in silence, flickering optics analyzing Soundwave’s face for a few brief seconds before he asked, “What are you proposing?”

“Argyrus scheduled to depart in five orns.” Soundwave said. “Two orns after this quartex. Jazz, stated anticipated date of emergence to be in two quartexes. Conclusion, time is of the essence. Departure, must occur as soon as possible.”

Jazz pivoted slowly on his heel to turn and face Soundwave. “You’d be willing to let Argyrus meet up with Optimus and Megatron without you being there to supervise? After your little minions almost tore his face into bits?” He huffed, “that doesn’t sound very tactical.”

“Argyrus, understands the importance of discretion.” Soundwave said thickly. “He will not reveal any more than he must. His respect for Reverb’s vision, outweighs personal desire for vengeance.”

Jazz nodded and though he tried to sport a nonchalant façade, Soundwave could see lines of tension beginning etching his frame, primarily in the way his hands were knitted tightly over his ventrum. But before he could even think to ask, Jazz brushed past him and took a seat on the chair that Soundwave had recently been occupying.

His movements were slower than Soundwave was used to and once or twice his jointed creaked softly. But all of that was bereft as soon as Jazz finally got off his feet for a bit of the tension finally drained from his frame. His hands remained in their usual place however.

“I sincerely doubt they’re going to let me go just like that. I don’t even know if Aster’s going to approve my request.”

Soundwave hummed, “permission, not required. Jazz, will be under Soundwave’s protection.”

Jazz didn’t look particularly thrilled by that statement. But he didn’t question it either. Instead, he smiled. “You know installing the codes is only part of the package, right? I’m going to need some frame modifications, an upgrade here and there, and given what Jespa’s told me, I’m gonna need plenty of bedrest to recuperate.” He paused and swallowed roughly. “Who knows...we might end up staying there until the bitlet’s ready to emerge.”

“Soundwave, capable of providing assistance when necessary.”

The saboteur was careful to keep his expressions indecipherable. “Are you?”

“Affirmative.”

The two of them sat in silence, the normal sounds of the estate absent at such a late hour and their steady ventilations being the only thing keeping them from total stillness. Jazz’s were a little harsher than Soundwave’s, a testament to the strain of his systems and his overall lack of proper rest.

They were ultimately what made Soundwave drop the conversation. He took a step back and gestured towards the wachracks. “Jazz, needs to wash and recharge.”

“Damn right I do.” The saboteur muttered, sounding a little too pleased for the distraction. He shakily rose to his feet, winced as a back strut moved a little unevenly and began to move past the telepath.

Soundwave watched him pass by, ignoring how much he wanted to reach out and simply touch. But boundaries had been set between them once more and there was too much unsteady ground lingering between them for him to take the leap forwards. The last thing Soundwave wanted was to do something that would risk alienating Jazz, especially with time being on the verge of running out. So, he kept his hands at his side and simply watched the saboteur disappear into the adjacent room, the silver door closing behind him with an audible swish.

There was the sound of a few mumbles and clattering before the familiar noise of the solvent spray could be heard and Soundwave let out a soft sigh. He glanced down at the datapad that lay on the armrest of the chair and picked it up, holding the shutdown datapad stiffly between his fingers.

With a quick flick of his thumb, the screen brightened up again and the half-finished letter blinked back into full view, the cursor lingering in the middle of a broken sentence. 

Soundwave stared at it for a few moments, optics narrowing as he alternated his gaze between the datapad and the closed door of the washracks. He could hear the sound of Jazz’s voice muttering something unintelligible, muffled by the door, and though it was far from joyful, it lacked the melancholy tone he’d seemed to have adopted since Soundwave had arrived. 

It made a sad smile play upon the telepath’s lips. But it did not dissuade him from what he was about to do next. Venting softly, he swiped his index finger across the screen and pressed the tiny box that asked for verification of the process. In a couple of nanokliks the entire message was erased and soon only an empty screen stared back.

The sound of the solvent spray disappeared and Soundwave gave the datapad one last glance before subspacing it, though the weight of it still burned his fingertips. But he pretended like it didn’t bother him and settled into the chair without a complaint. His back would be aching when the next orn came but he knew that would soon turn out to be the least of his concerns.

 

~~~

 

“We’re going to try this one more time. And I fully expect you to listen and cooperate for both our sakes, okay?” A pause. “So, as I said before, what were you doing in Central Square two orns ago during the riot that broke out?”

Silence.

Silverwing resisted the urge to let out a frustrated huff and instead smiled a little wider and folded his hands over the smooth surface of the interrogation table. It was sticky and warm, a reminder of just how many bots had recently gotten their hands on top of it, and the thought made him internally recoil. 

The bot on the opposite end of the table was a small red mech, lithe and lanky with a broken optic that had long since gone dark and a few dent marks littering his faceplates from the time he’d tried to fight off an Enforcer. He was slouched in his chair with his arms crossed and a sneer on his face, openly defying everyone and everything that so much as dared look at him wrong.

But he wasn’t the only one feeling standoffish. The small rally in the central Iaconian district had been intended as a peaceful protest against the current government figureheads but in a matter of astrokliks, it’d turned violent when a couple intoxicated mechs traded a few words and the streets had to be closed off when shots were fired and several bystanders had been injured.

Silverwing had spent three joors in the tiny interrogation room with a few of those that Enforcers managed to capture but little had been yielded from the brief sessions. Some were mechs caught in the wrong place at the wrong time but most were unruly bots who didn’t think they’d ever end up getting arrested.

So, it had mostly sullen silences and curses muttered through gritted dentae with an occasional Energon break peppered here and there.

He was exhausted.

His commlink gave a brief beep and he discreetly gave the signal that alerted the mechs behind the tinted window of the room to continue.

 _::You want a break?::_ It was Riot, and judging by his hoarse voice, he was fresh out of an interrogation session.

 _::Kid won’t talk if I leave,::_ Silverwing sent back, body language never changing. _::He’s acting tough but I can tell he’s just scared.::_

_::That kid’s the one that busted up Quartz’ optic. He’s dangerous.::_

Silverwing resisted the urge to roll his optics. _::Give a youngling a fusion canon and they’ll give you just as much trouble,::_ he quipped back. _::I got this. Just give me a few more joors.::_

A brief moment of silence and then Riot replied, _::You got four joors. Then I’m coming in there.::_ Before Silverwing could protest, the line went dead and he was left with the soft static of a terminated line ringing in his audioreceptor. He sighed, lifting a hand to rub at his left temple and fight away the ache that was now blooming in his processors.

He’d never missed Prowl more than he did in that very moment. Ever since Prowl had taken a mandatory leave from duty in regards to his health, Riot had been promoted to temporary commissioner and he’d been quick to utilize his power to implement his own systems into place.

The precincts in Praxus and Ultihex had the funding to their medical wards cut, Riot claiming that most arrested bots used crime as a loophole to get emergency medical care without directly paying the full fee for it. All bots in the ICU were sent to the main medical facilities in both respective cities, much to the chagrin of most officers. 

But that wasn’t the worst part. The training for new recruits had been leveled up a few tiers and once they’d had a steady stream of new officers fresh and ready for mentoring and deployment, now they only got a quarter of the numbers that they did.

As a result, most officers had been pulling double shifts and their exhaustion was evident in the way that the unleaded Energon pot was always brewing and how they snuck out every now and then to the maintenance level of the building to take quick little recharge naps. As a jet-alt, Silverwing’s energy reserves were bigger than his compatriots so he was able to pull a couple shifts without feeling too much of a lag. But he wasn’t infallible.

He was currently on his third shift, having taken an extra to give one of his one of his peers time to go back home and see their bondmate, and his fuel reserves were down to their last quarter.

But the red mech still wasn’t talking.

Normally, Silverwing would be fine with letting another officer step in to finish an interrogation but Riot’s methods were more volatile and generally were a hit or miss. Suspects either cowered in fear and blabbered or they bottled everything up and refused to speak to anyone.

Neither option boded well in Silverwing’s opinion and he’d rather get the mech in front of him processed with as little trauma as possible.

He glanced over at the datapad sitting on the edge of the desk and pulled it in front of him, powering up the screen until the familiar empty case file blinked back at him. He opened up a new document and subspaced his stylus, lifting his helm to stare at the red mech.

Time for him to use another tactic, it seemed. 

“If you don’t want to talk, that’s fine.” He began, shrugging with one shoulder. “I get it. You messed up and didn’t expect to get caught. It happens.” Silverwing tapped the screen with the stylus tip, “But I’m still gonna need some information to store your profile in the system so you can either tell me in person or someone else is going to have to come in and prepare you for a probe.” 

That got the red mech to snap out of his silent fuming. He’d been staring at the datapad but as soon as the last word left Silverwing’s lips, his helm had snapped up and a look of genuine but wary fright crossed his features.

“You can’t.” He hissed, “that’s illegal.” 

Silverwing tilted his helm to one side, feigning confusion. “Is it?”

The question made the red mech drop his offensive stance; he sat up a little straighter in the chair but with his shoulders still hunched, hands falling to grip the edge of the table. “I have rights. You can’t stick any needles into my head without my fraggin’ consent!”

“Who said anything about needles?” Silverwing asked, leaning forward with an amused raising of his optic ridges.

The red mech looked confused for a moment, one hand subconsciously reaching up to rub the back of his neck. There was a brief flicker of vulnerability in his blue optics but the mech quickly caught himself and blinked it away, scowling.

Silverwing pretended to write something down. “Those are some pretty nice spoilers you’ve got there,” he said without looking up. “Can I ask where you got them?" 

“None of your damn business.”

The Seeker let a smile spread over his lip upon hearing the familiar Earth curse. “That’s a fancy way of talking, mech. You new around here?”

“...no.”

Translation: yes.

Grinning, Silverwing leaned back in his own chair with a haphazard grace, tapping the stylus softly against his lower lip. “See, I’ve got a friend that says some of the craziest things. ‘Go to hell!’ ‘Stick it where the sun don’t shine!’ Pretty colorful stuff. But I never knew where he got it from until I pestered him about it and I realized what it was. Earth lingo.” Silverwing’s golden optics narrowed. “You’ve got a pretty clear handle on it so I assume you’ve been to Earth, right?”

The red mech looked ready to reject the accusation but seeing how it wouldn’t do him any good, he shrugged and relented. “Yeah, okay, sure. I’ve been to Earth. What’s this got to do with anything?”

Ignoring his question, Silverwing pointed the stylus at the red mech. “Blue optics, warm color scheme, and faceplates softer than a youngling’s belly, I’d say you’re a former Autobot? Maybe a NAIL?”

A fist slammed onto the table, causing the datapad on top of it to clatter noisily againsnt the surface. Once warm blue optics burned a deep azure, and the dark flickers of another EM field slammed against the edges of Silverwing’s. “I’m not a slagging NAIL,” the red mech spat. “Don’t you dare label me with those cowards.”

Silverwing shrugged, “Well, you haven’t exactly given me much to go off of. You’re one of the only armed perpetrators captured at the scene and ballistics has reported that those your weapon injured, were bystanders. If that doesn’t sound cowardly, I don’t know what is.”

A soft hiss escaped the mech and he tensed, looking like he was moments away from slamming the table away and launching himself at Silverwing. But the Seeker kept his calm composure, keeping his gaze leveled firmly on the other mech’s face.

They stared at each other in complete silence for a few moments but it felt like an eternity for Silverwing; already he could tell he was on the verge of reaching his time limit and the red mech still hadn’t said anything useful apart from his obvious disgruntlement regarding NAILS.

Glancing at the tinted window behind himself, Silverwing let out a sigh and said, “I’m trying to help you out here, kid. The world’s not the most stable of places and if you’re not careful, you’re going to be swept up by the tide. In a joor, I’m going to leave and the mech who’s going to come in here isn’t going to be as understanding as I am. He isn’t going to be patient. He isn’t going to care. But I do. I want you to tell me what you can because I don’t want you to be thrown into some prison cell with an actual criminal and forgotten about.” He paused, remembering something and said, “you probably feel like nobody cares, right? The world’s probably stomped on you and nobody was there to pick you back up and so you decided that the only way to make yourself feel better was to change it.” 

Silverwing placed a hand on the table’s surface, palm up and placed it between them. “But the war’s taught everyone that violence doesn’t change anything, remember? So, please...make the right choice.”

The red mech stared at him, alternating his gaze between the open hand on the table and the hopeful faceplates of the silver Seeker. Behind the tinted window, the officers watching held their ventilations and watched with morbid curiosity as the red mech’s shoulders lost their tension and a dejected look crossed his face. 

Slowly, he lifted his own hand and reached out, gently placing it on top of Silverwing’s.

“Okay,” he said.

For a moment, a few of the observing officers felt relief but one look at the stoic posture of their commissioner made that feeling evaporate like dew in the sunlight. Not a few nanokliks later, Silverwing’s scream of pain nearly shorted out the intercom system and all optics turned to watch as the red mech pulled the Enforcer over the table, grabbed onto the tip of his wings and began to bend and pull at the delicate metal with a look of pure fury etched on his faceplates.

Two mechs ran in to help Silverwing, who by then had managed to wriggle out of harm’s way and was now trying to pin the flailing red mech onto the floor. The red mech spat curses at all of them and even when he was cuffed and being dragged away, he never let up. He hissed and growled, kicking his legs and reminding all of them that they knew absolutely nothing.

Silverwing sat on the floor in silence, nursing his broken noseplate and wincing as he tried to move his damaged wings. A few wires were poking out around the edges of a few damaged platelets, sparking and sending pulses of pain down his back.

One of the bots who’d run in to help him was loitering by the door, concern in his purple optics. “You okay, Silverwing?”

The Seeker glanced up and waved a hand. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He dabbed at the Energon that dribbled down his chin and grimaced as he accidentally rubbed at a small cut on his lip. “Just go help Ion and Xenon. I’ll finish cleaning up here.” Gold optics glanced frustrated at the tipped over chairs and table, lingering on the broken datapad that’d been flung against the opposite wall and now lay shattered on the ground.

The sound of heavy footsteps forced Silverwing to glance back at the open door of the interrogation room and his vitals dropped upon seeing Riot’s silver frame filling up the doorway. The temporary commissioner wore his customary scowl in place, optics sweeping over the damaged room before resting on the injured Seeker.

Silverwing grimaced. “You here to lecture me, sir?”

Riot’s optics narrowed. “You’re not in any position to be cheeky with me, Silverwing.” Stepping inside, the silver Praxian crossed his arms over his chest and gestured around with a curt swivel of his helm. “I told you to take a break. But you decided to disregard my suggestion and proceeded to interrogate a suspect knowing you were not in the right state of mind to do so.”

The Seeker let out a harsh exvent. “You gave me a time limit. All I did was try to work with it.”

“You were reckless. And now, thanks to you, the mech’s now facing charges for assaulting an Enforcer. Even if he gives up information, he won’t be leaving his cell for a long time." 

Swallowing a wad of unprocessed Energon, Silverwing muttered. “Is there any way to rescind the charge?”

Riot scoffed. “You want to rescind the charge when everyone and their unmaker watched him pummel you into the ground?”

Knowing how he sounded, Silverwing shook his helm and rose shakily to his feet. Despite the Energon caking his face and the missing panels and indentations in his wing, the damage was not as bad as it seemed. A small blessing in the face of everything.

A pang of guilt went through him as he remembered the altercation with the red mech and he grimaced, hating how stupid and naïve his whole speil had sounded. It certainly wasn’t a wonder why the mech had reacted the way he did in the first place.

“You’re off this case,” Riot said suddenly, snapping Silverwing out of his morose thoughts. The Praxian pointed at the Seeker’s face and the gestured to the open door behind him with a jerk of his thumb. “No more interrogations. No more arrests. And get that busted lip of yours fixed up before you go out there and show everyone what a fool you made of yourself in here.”

Silverwing growled, “That’s not fair!”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s fair or not,” Riot retorted through gritted dentae. “You’ve been given an order and it’s your duty to follow it.”

“This isn’t the slagging military,” the Seeker respited, supspacing a mesh cloth and using it to wipe away the Energon from his face. His repair systems had taken care of the cuts and abrasions though the dents remained.

Riot scoffed. “You would know plenty about military infrastructure, wouldn’t you, Silverwing?”

The Seeker froze.

Riot smiled snidely, “No, I didn’t think so.” He looked around the room and stepped back, gesturing lamely at the mess. “And get this cleaned up, would you?”

Without another word, Riot left and Silverwing was left alone, room askew and face and wing aching something awful.

 

~~~

 

Iacon’s nightlife was an oddity. 

It wasn’t vibrant and colorful like the rest of the city states, where it’s flashing lights were visible from space at all hours of the orn.

It was a different world all on its own, hidden in recesses and empty corners bots thought could use a little more light, carefully and gradually filling the dark underbelly of the city with the warm-cool hues of music and cheer. 

Bars were places bots went to celebrate nowadays, buying drinks and treats on a shared tab and whispering salutations to whatever grand event brought them to the doorsteps. 

Of course, high grade had been a drink that was fundamentally created to treat certain conditions, one of which was the profound sadness that occasionally plagued most adherents of every society. A few bots still went to these places to forget, the habit forged in war proving to be a little hard to shake. 

But that never deterred from the overall atmosphere. 

It was why Silverwing preferred it to the quiet solitude of his compartment and the main reason why he sat in that stool with a morose look on his face and several crushed and empty cubes stacked to the side of him. 

He wasn’t overcharged yet but he could feel the telltale buzz in the back of his helm and warmth pooling in his chest that told him he wasn’t too far off. He’d purposefully avoided jet-grade fuel and gone for the milder grounder version, half-expecting his flight systems to process it faster than he could ever hope to feel it’s aftereffects but to his immense surprise, it’d proven to be far stronger than he’d anticipated.

Which was a good thing. He wanted to get overcharged; he wanted to feel that brief but satisfying numbness and forget about the orn’s happenings. Even if for just a few nanokliks.

He ordered another cube and the bartender slid it down the table with ease, where it came to a rather clean-cut stop in Silverwing’s open palm. It was warm, condensation dripping off the rim and he closed his optics as he took his first swig. 

It tasted the same as the others. Bland but sweet, with an electrical charge that made his processor buzz happily and his wings flutter relaxedly on his back. All in all, just the thing he needed. 

“You’re on your fifth helping.” The rough voice of the bartender intoned a little ways down the long table. He was cleaning a glass cube with a soiled rag, a blatant health code violation that the Seeker knew he should protest as per his code of honor as an Enforcer. His processor told him to question the mech about it but his mouth could only procure a hazy little quip coupled with a lazy upwards tilt of his optic ridges.

“Am I? Haven’t noticed.”

“Keep tryin’ to be funny an’ I won’t give you any more.” Was the dry reply and Silverwing dutifully shut his mouth.

The music in the bar increased in tempo and a soft cheer rose as an autotuned voice trickled through the static-laced speakers to announce the beginning of the ‘half off two’ special for the next two joors. On cue, Silverwing’s space soon found itself invaded by eager mechs hoping to cash in on a few extra drinks and his euphoria found itself stifled when a few of those errant bots brushed against his wings with little to no regard for caution.

One mech in particular grabbed onto one to pull himself forward and Silverwing let out a harsh growl of displeasure as pain lanced thorugh his haptic net. Whipping around, he focused his golden gaze on the offender and roughly jabbed a finger into their collar flaring.

“Hey! Ever hear of steering clear of a Seeker’s wings?”

Azure optics, blurry with intoxication, narrowed. “Get your fingers off me.” 

“You shouldn’t have put your hands on me, then.” Silverwing fumbled a bit as he reached into his subspace to pull out the physical copy of his identification badge but he managed to procure it and all but shoved it into the other bot’s face. “That’s cause for arrest.”

A chuckle. “They let just anyone into the Enforcer corps now, don’t they?” A black hand pushed the badge away dismissively and before Silverwing could think of anything else to say, the bot shouldered past him to place his order and returned to his seat without so much as a backwards glance. 

Suppressing a frustrated sigh, Silverwing turned back around in his seat and slammed his identification on the sticky surface with a loud smack. Great. Not only did he help condemn a mech to prison but he’s apparently incapable of garnishing the small semblance of respect from even the likes of a a drunken mech.

Some Enforcer he was turning out to be.

He drank in somber silence for a few orns, the sound of laughter and music suddenly grating on his audials and he folded his arms over the table and tried to drown it out, hunching over his cube with his optics closed and dentae gritted.

A while later, he heard someone slip into the seat next to him and he reflexively shifted a few inches away, pulling his cube with him. Without looking, he reached for his badge and he froze when he felt someone else reach out and take it from just underneath his own fingertips. Not in the mood for another confrontation, he grimaced and turned to face the bot responsible but whatever words he was ready to deal died in his throat as soon as he realized who it was.

She was holding his badge in the palm of her hand, an easy smile on her lips as she read the glyphs. “Huh,” she said, glancing up to meet his optics. “Never expected to see you here, of all places.”

Silverwing stared at her, blinking stupidly. But he quickly caught his bearings and scoffed, shaking his head. “Of course,” he said, reaching for his drink. “Of all the bots I meet, it just had to be you.”

“Not the welcome I was expecting.”

Silverwing scowled, reaching over to pluck his identification from her hand and tuck it back into his subspace where it belonged. “What were you expecting, Demaxx?” He asked, glancing at her from the corner of his optics.  

She shrugged. “A gasp. Maybe a little blushing and flustered stuttering.” She paused, looking thoughtful for a moment and then she said perfectly nonchalantly. “Perhaps even a little wing flutter followed by a hunching of the shoulders, given how you seem to remember my designation and all.”

The specific terminology made the Seeker frown in confusion but his processor quickly connected a few stray clues in his memory banks and he let out an exasperated sigh. “Oh.” He shook his helm. “I assume you finally got that book on interfacing positions, then?”

“Bingo.” Demaxx clicked her glossa. “It had a whole chapter on Seeker wing-speak and body language. Very informative.”

It dawned on Silverwing that she was toying with him; despite her calm demeanor, there was a bit of sardonic mirth injected into her tone and he knew that she still hadn’t gotten over their recent encounter. It’d ended with her disowning his own perspectives and beliefs and her driving off into the crowd after he’d escorted her out of the Enforcer headquarters, leaving him with little hope of ever seeing the femme again.

The chances of meeting her here, after what had just happened to him back at the precinct, were so infinitesimally small that it was almost laughable. The universe had a sick way of reminding him just how royally he’d screwed up.

Lucidity was returning to him now, his frame having had time to properly burn through most of the high grade he’d ingested that night, and without the warmth of inebriation clouding his thoughts, he definitely wasn’t in the mood to engage in whatever witty banter the femme had in mind for him.

He glanced down at his half-empty cube and grimaced, grasping it between shaky fingers and swirling it around lazily.

Demaxx turned out to be incredibly perceptive. When he failed to fall in line with her goading, her sarcastic expression softened into one of genuine confusion and she stared at him silently for a few moments before asking, “What are you doing here, Silverwing?”

“Drinking.” 

The femme raised an incredulous optic ridge. “Why?”

“Because I want to. And besides, when does anyone ever need a reason to drink?” The words came out harsher than he’d intended but a tiny part of him remembered that the bot next to him was made of sterner stuff and he refrained from apologizing. Instead, he raised the cube up to his lips and gulped down the last of the glowing alcoholic imbibe. It burned his intake on its way down and he reveled it, letting out a satisfied sigh when he finished. 

He could feel Demaxx’s optics on him, watching his every move as he set the cube down and waved to get the bartender’s attention again. Demaxx said nothing at first but when the bartender lumbered his way down to the Seeker’s place, she lifted a hand and brought the burly mech’s attention to her instead.

“No more high-grade.” She said softly. “Make it a double order of Energon instead.”

“Unleaded?” The bartender asked.

“Yeah.” With simultaneous nods, the order was placed and the bartender left to procure the two imbibes.

Silverwing turned to cast an annoyed look at the silver femme. “I hate unleaded Energon.”

Demaxx’s gold optics flickered over his face before settling on his own, an unreadable expression on her face. She said nothing and after a while, the Seeker began to feel unnerved by all the attention she was bestowing upon him. The last time they’d interacted, she’d wanted absolutely nothing to do with him.

So why the sudden interest?

When their drinks arrived, Silverwing was surprised to notice that along with the glowing purple cubes, smaller containers were placed in front of them with tiny spoons balanced carefully on the contents. From his viewpoint, Silverwing saw what looked to be copper shavings and aluminum dustings and his mouth watered at the sight.

“Is that--?”

Demaxx nodded, reaching for the copper shavings, pinching some between her thumb and forefinger and then sprinkling it on the surface of her drink. “This bar’s pretty famous for its cocktails. But it’s unleaded Energon comes with additives and that’s probably the biggest plus about this place.” She took a drink and hummed, jaw working subtly as she chewed the tiny shavings.

Silverwing hesitated but eventually caved, putting a considerable dollop of aluminum into his own drink before proceeding to indulge in it.

Both of them drank in silence, listening to the boisterous atmosphere of the bots and music in the bar with only the occasional murmuring about their drinks peppered in between pauses. It all turned into white noise, a necessary noise that didn’t take away anything from their experience. In the end, it turned out that Demaxx had been right.

Unlike high grade, whose warmth was electric and fire, the unleaded Energon was smoother and more fulfilling, warming him from the tips of his nose all the way to the very tips of his wings. He couldn’t help but lift them up in appreciation and his hunched posture slowly graduated into one of genuine relaxation. 

When he finished the cube, he felt a little mournful because it’d been delicious but the desire for more was absent. Sated, he pushed it aside and clasped his hands on the table surface. Beside him, Demaxx was still drinking, taking small sips that were far too brief to be considered normal. She didn’t look at him but Silverwing knew she was watching him and eventually she grew weary of their silent standoff and turned her helm in his direction.

“Got something to say to me, officer?”

The title made Silverwing frown and he shook his helm. “No,” he answered truthfully. “I’m merely making a few...observations.”

That caused her optics to narrow slightly but the small act was so subtle he almost missed it when she blinked and he thanked Primus for his sharp optics. Finishing her sip, she put the cube down, leaned one elbow against the table and pivoted her torso to fully face him.

“Haven’t we played this game before?”

Silverwing shrugged. “You’re the one who started it.”

“Did I?”

“When you took my badge,” the Seeker explained, tapping at the place on his torso where the entrance to his subspace was. “You wanted to catch my attention.”

Demaxx paused then smiled, amused. “Perhaps I did.” She reached up to wipe a stray drop of Energon from her lower lip with her thumb and kissed the tip of it, glossa peeking out to taste before she dropped her hand to rest it on her thigh. “Though I can’t imagine you’d be able to guess why.”

Silverwing’s lips twitched into the start of a smile. “Is that a challenge?”

A shrug was all the femme offered before returning to her original position. But the smile still remained on the Seeker’s face, softer but present. It wasn’t much, really, but it made him feel content. Perhaps it was just his brief infatuation with the femme rearing its head, reminding him of just how much he’d appreciated the sharp angles and sleek curves that she bore, that scathing glossa of hers and the absolute dedication she held for all her ideals back when he’d last spoken to her.

Granted, it’d taken a while for him to get over the ludicrousness of the chase she’d forced him through but he knew it meant something that he hadn’t been able to hold onto his anger and frustration when dealing with her.

The only thing that saddened him was that their meetings always seemed to fall under the most unpleasant of circumstances. On opposing forces of the law or unexpectedly during their times of mutual mourning. 

He wasn’t stupid. Despite whatever conflicting emotions he felt in regards to the femme, he could tell that her Spark wasn’t entirely into her banter. Whatever reason she’d chosen to bring his attention to her, he knew it wasn’t because she’d found him charming and hadn’t been able to contain herself. 

Perhaps he wasn’t the only one with something that needed to be said.

He sighed. “I messed up,” he admitted softly, optics trained on the sticky table surface. “Badly.”

Demaxx didn’t look at him. “Did you now?”

“Yes. There was...this mech. Young, probably not even a couple vorns into his adult upgrades but he’d been through a lot of scrap and it showed in the way he talked to every officer that interrogated him. I took a shot after everyone quit, hoping that I could find a way to make him feel like not everyone’s against him.” He laughed but without any humor. “I told him to do the right thing. And then he slammed my face against the table and all but beat me within an inch of my life. He got even more charges pressed and I ended up looking like a fool in front of my colleagues.”

Demaxx said nothing.

Silverwing silently cursed, too embarrassed to glance up and look at the femme. Had he gone and done it again? Assume something was there when there really wasn’t? Perhaps; the orn had proven that his instincts weren’t as finely tuned as he’d expected, after all.

Unable to bear the silence between them, he lifted his helm and tried to get the bartender’s attention again but the burly mech must’ve gotten tired of acquiescing to his needs because he refused to even lift his helm to see him. Instead, he kept scrubbing away at the reusable cubes, rag as soiled and code-violating as usual.

Dejected, Silverwing lowered his hand back to the surface of the table and clenched it into a fist. Beside him, the femme was still sipping her drink and not saying anything so Silverwing took that, as well as his newfound sobriety, as indications that it was time to leave. He took out a couple of credits and placed them on the table, muttering a quick goodbye to Demaxx before rising from his seat.

Quick as a flash, a hand reached out to latch onto his wrist, lithe fingers digging into the soft alloy. Silverwing paused and turned his helm, optics narrowed and questioning as he looked at Demaxx. 

She had her cube up at her lips and was gulping down the rest of her mixture, intake undulating as she swallowed and optics closed in concentration. In record time, she finished and stood up, wiping her mouth with the back of her free hand and turning to meet Silverwing’s gaze.

Her hand was still latched tight around his wrist.

“You got a nanoklik?” She asked, leaning in so she could be heard over the rising volume of the crowd.

Silverwing hesitated, unsure of what to reply.

Sensing his uncertainty, she shook her head, cupped her hand around her mouth and stood on the tip of her toes so she could get a little closer to his audial. “Relax. I’m not gonna lead you out to the back of the bar and jump you or anything. There’s just something I want to show you.”

Despite his better judgment, Silverwing found his interest piqued. He couldn’t quite gauge what the femme was feeling, her actions and tone far too neutral for his liking, but some distant part of him kept telling him that despite her record, she wasn’t someone prone to attacking Enforcers just for the heck of it.

So, he nodded his helm and watched as she paid for their drinks and then quickly began to lead him away from the table and into the crowd.

Silverwing kept his wings as close to his frame as possible to avoid any unnecessary contact and though a few stray hands knocked against the senor rich edges, he merely gritted his denatae and kept his attention on Demaxx. They walked underneath one of the flashing lights and found themselves bathed in a rather unseemly green hue and that was when Silverwing saw it.

Or more like them.

In the original dim light of the long table, Silverwing hadn’t really been able to see Demaxx’s frame in detail because of the shoddy illumination. But in that brief astrosecond, Silverwing did see and his surprise caused his steps to falter slightly and he accidentally bumped against another mech in the crowd.

The sound of glass breaking alerted Silverwing and he guessed that his unexpected jostle must’ve caused the mech he’d bumped into to lose their drink. Planting his feet on the ground, he brought both of them to a stop and turned to look at the poor sod he’d accidentally wronged.

His Spark gave an unexpected lurch when his optics caught sight of who it was and he took a reflexive step backward in surprise.

“Riot?”

The silver Praxian was glaring down at the floor, large hands wiping at the streaks of glowing purple liquid that now stained his chassis with a rather unhappy grimace on his face. At the sound of Silverwing’s voice, his gaze lifted and they flared strongly with displeasure.

“Silverwing.” Riot spat the designation out as if it left a bad taste on his glossa. “What an absolute pleasure.”

“It was an accident,” the Seeker explained, fighting off the ‘sir’ that was teetering on the tip of his glossa. Neither of them were on active duty at the moment, it seemed, so workplace formalities weren’t a strong necessity.

Riot growled, low and deep in his throat. But before he could say anything his optics flashed towards Silverwing’s extended arm and zeroed in on the femme that now stood stiff and frozen as she glanced at them both over the cusp of her shoulder.

The hand around Silverwing’s wrist tightened to the point of near pain but the Seeker sagely kept held his glossa, the sudden spike of tension in the air almost palatable. 

“Well, well,” Riot groused, one hand drifting to rest on his hip. “If it isn’t the little thief that just can’t help but find their way back into my cells.”

Before Demaxx could say anything, Silverwing took a step forward and said, “Her name is Demaxx.”

Riot guffawed. “Frag. I guess there really are ways other than credits to bribe an Enforcer nowadays, isn’t there.” Pointing a finger at Silverwing, Riot looked at Demaxx and asked, “What’d you give him, eh? A quick little romp in the berth? Sucked his spike while the two of you were in an interrogation room?”

Silverwing grimaced as Riot continued with his list, finding each scenario more distasteful than the last, but movement near the corner of his optic caused him to glance at Demaxx and his Spark twisted in its casing at what he saw.

Demaxx was staring at Riot with a mixture of shock and mortification, optics wide and glassy and lips pursed into a thin fine line. When the Praxian took a step forward, she flinched and Silverwing decided then and there that enough was enough. Spreading his wings, Silverwing stepped forward and put himself as a barrier between the femme and the other Enforcer, gold optics narrowed.

“Apologies,” the Seeker said forcefully. “But we have somewhere to be.” With that, he was now the one pulling Demaxx and though she remained stiff in his grasp, he didn’t glance back until they’d emerged into the cool darkness of the outside world. The two bouncers dipped their helms in greeting before gesturing for the two bots in the front of the line to go in. Silverwing guided them away from the busy entrance, coming to a halt at a small bench that hovered underneath a flickering street lamp.

Demaxx let go of his hand almost immediately and the Seeker took the opportunity to massage the aching joint, twisting his hand to and fro to work out the little kinks that’d formed. Wincing, he looked at Demaxx and asked, “are you okay?”

The femme glanced back at the bar further down the street and shook her helm. “I have to go,” she breathed, taking a few steps back. “I’m sorry.”

Silverwing frowned, “What? Why? Hey!” Reflexively, he reached out to try to grab her hand but he hadn’t even managed to graze the side of her palm before her hands took hold of his wrist and twisted it in such a painful sudden way that forced the Seeker to fall to one knee.

The subtle warmth and openness she’d displayed in the bar were gone from her features and Silverwing mourned them as a look of genuine hatred burned deep in her golden optics. She put more pressure into her hold and Silverwing let out a strangled gasp as searing hot pain flooded up the length of his arm and pooled in his shoulder joint.

Through the haze of pain, Silverwing saw Demaxx’s upper lip curl into something resembling disgust. “Do you even know what I wanted to show you?” She asked coldly.

“Not in– _wince_ –the slightest,” he gritted out. 

She let out a harsh scoff. “And yet you still went with me. Pathetic.” She shook her helm and a contemptuous smile parted her faceplates. “Still as naïve as ever, I see.”

Silverwing’s battlecomputer jumped online at the sound of her changing tone and his optics widened as warnings flashed across his HUD, reminding him that he was moments away from getting his wrist snapped in half.  He tried to dull his pain receptors in the area but seeing how they were already hard at work, his system pinged back a negative. Demaxx’s fingers pressed harder against the back of his wrist joint and Silverwing couldn’t stifle the curse of pain that escaped his lips.

But he still kept his composure, carefully reminding himself not to panic as he briefly closed his optics. “What...happened?”

Gold optics narrowed behind a clear visor. “What?”

“What the slag did I do?” Silverwing hissed, helm snapping up to glare at the femme. “You’re the one who fragging talked to _me_ in there. If you wanted to prove a point, you’ve already done that so _what the frag_ are you still doing here?”

Those lithe fingers twitched where they had his wrist gripped and Silverwing tensed, expecting the break and pain that would inevitably follow.

But it never came.

Instead, the hands on his disappeared and the pain immediately subsided as soon as he cradled the appendage to his chest and slowly allowed the feeling to return in the abused joint.

Demaxx’s hands fell to her side, deliberately curling into fists. “You know what your problem is, Silverwing? You trust far too much. Someday, someone is going to take advantage of that...and it isn’t going to end well for you." 

The haunting undertone made the Seeker frown. “Is that a threat?” He asked, rising to his feet. He was a full head taller than the femme but she remained unperturbed.

“Just a piece of advice,” she said simply.

Silverwing wanted to say more, demand to know why she’d suddenly turned on him when just moments before she’d offered him a warmth he’d never thought he’d receive from her. But before he could even muster up the strength to ask, she turned on her heels and transformed, racing down the street until she took a skidding turn and disappeared into the darkness.

The Seeker swallowed roughly, injured hand suddenly beginning to throb. His optics glanced over at the faint outline of the bar, listening to the soft buzz of noise that the establishment omitted as he watched the exit with a morbid hopefulness in his chest.

But he didn’t stay long; deciding that he’d finally had enough, he made his way back to his compartment on foot and all throughout the two joor journey, tried to convince himself that the bitterness he was tasting in his mouth was for something other than disappointment.

It was the aluminum, he surmised when he reached the bright white architecture of his compartment complex. He’d put too much in his drink, indulged too much in something that always did funny things to his insides.

But what could be expected of a bot that’d been drinking to forget? Nothing, and Silverwing kept trying to unsuccessfully remind himself of the fact for the rest of the night cycle.

 

~~~

 

It’d been Soundwave’s idea.

Jazz knew he was fine, that all his systems were working optimally and the little aches and pains were nothing more than a byproduct of his carrying state. But of course, when the telepath had seen him hiss in pain when he’d twisted a little too suddenly during recharge, Soundwave had immediately woken him up and demanded that he receive medical attention.

He’d had tried to argue, unsuccessfully, in favor of a little more recharge but he knew the telepath wouldn’t let up on his argument so the saboteur had caved in for the sake of avoiding yet another useless argument. He’d refueled and wandered over to Jespa’s office, fully prepared to deal with the good doctor’s ire at having been woken up so early in the orn.

But to his immense surprise, the femme had opened the door on the first knock and her alert optics narrowed slightly in concern upon seeing him.

“Meister?”

Jazz nodded, “do you have a moment?”

Jespa’s lips twisted to one side and she glanced behind her for a moment before nodding. “I have a patient in here with me already but if you’re well enough to wait, you can hop on into the spare cot I have in here.”

“That’s fine,” Jazz murmured. “I’m not in any hurry." 

“Splendid.” Jespa allowed the door to open fully and stepped aside, gesturing for the silver mech to come inside. Jazz offered a polite dip of his helm before complying, visor dimming upon being met with the bright white lights of the office. He made his way to where he knew the extra cot was and took his seat, shuttering his optics several times before truly focusing on the other occupant in the room.

He didn’t even get a chance to think before they were waving their small hands in his direction, optics wide and happy as they grinned widely from audial to audial.

“Meister! It’s me! Remember me?!”

Jazz felt like Devastator had gone and stepped on his chest when he noticed the bundle of blue and gold sitting on the opposite end of the room and the tall immovable statue of his white-panneled caretaker standing by his side. “Hello, Radiance.”

The youngling’s optics shone with glee upon being mentioned and he wiggled in his seat. “You do remember me! Aster, did you hear that, Meister remembers me!” Clapping his hands, Radiance asked, “Why haven’t you come to see me anymore? Aster said it was because you were sick.”

Aster grimaced upon being called out and he placed a firm but gentle hand on the youngling’s shoulder and told him to be a little more quiet. “It’s unbecoming of you to be so rambunctious,” the retainer explained. “So please, lower your voice.”

Radiance’s nose scrunched up. “What does rambunctious mean?”

Aster didn’t miss a beat. “It’s what you’re doing now, young master. Being needlessly loud and disturbing the other patients.” Scarlet optics gave Jazz a narrow side glance and the saboteur struggled not to frown right back.

The youngling placed its hands over its mouth and gasped softly. “I’m sorry.” Gold optics glanced apologetically at Jazz who couldn’t help but dip his helm in acknowledgment.

Luckily their interaction was cut short when Jespa returned, a datapad secured in her hands and a big smile on her face aimed at the youngling. “Well,” she said a little too amimatedly. “Everything checks out quite alright for our little bot here. All scans turned out well and I ran few tox screens to make sure there wasn’t anything worrisome in his fuel lines and they all came back negative. I can only assume Radiance must’ve eaten something that didn’t sit well with him, probably some sweets given how his pressure levels are a little higher than normal.”

The retainer narrowed his optics at the news. “Will that affect him in any way?”

Jespa shook her helm. “Not at all. Just have him on triple-filtered Energon for the next four orns and his systems should regulate themselves on their own. If, and only if, the symptoms don’t go away then have him back here and I’ll prescribe a rheostat. But for now, everything should be fine.”

Radiance glanced up worriedly at Aster, who contemplated the words for a moment before sighing and nodding. “Thank you, doctor.”

“Jespa,” the femme reminded, smiling softly. “Doctor is my title, not my designation.”

Aster didn’t appear to be amused by the fun little quip and he said nothing as he gently helped Radiance off the cot and onto the floor. From his place, Jazz could see that Radiance was a little taller than he’d remembered, coming up to Aster’s hip despite having been knee-high but a few quartexes ago.

Seemed like he’d gone through a few armor upgrades. Or one. Jazz wasn’t exactly sure how many upgrades younglings normally went through.

Another little thing to add to his growing list of insecurities.

Radiance offered Jazz a brilliant smile and rather overzealous waves of his hand in farewell and had Aster not been holding onto his shoulder, the youngling probably would’ve run over to shower the saboteur with more physical displays of affection. Thankfully, that had not been the case and the two bots walked out of the room without causing too much of a scene.

Silence reigned not long after and Jazz let out a ventilation that he hadn’t known he’d been holding in.

Jespa scribbled down something on her datapad before walking over to set it down on her desk, plugging it into the monitor and downloading the contents onto her mainframe. “Now,” she said, without looking up at the saboteur. “What’s brought you into my company this time, Meister?”

“The usual aches and pains.” Jazz said, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. He glanced around the office, hands clasped tightly in his lap.

“Do you have any trouble walking? Recharging?”

Jazz pursed his lips for a second before replying, “Recharging,” he replied, remembering just how painful the discomfort had been when he’d stirred from his recharge. “Sometimes...I wake up because of a pain I feel in my lower torso, a little to the side and just above my hip joint.” 

Green optics narrowed at that mention. “How would you describe the pain?” 

Thinking it over, Jazz replied, “Sharp and sudden. It lingers after a moment then gradually disappears.” 

“Hmm.” Jespa finished her upload and walked over to the cot that Jazz was occupying, propping open the little cover for the screen on her arm and typing in a few glyphs. She gestured for Jazz to lie back on the cot and helped him settle into a comfortable position before beginning a preliminary scan. 

“Interesting,” she said, traces of a smile in her tone. She reached to the side and pulled up a portable monitor screen, the wheels squeaking on the floor and grating Jazz’s audials. But the discomfort only grew when Jespa grabbed the small scanner and pressed it to his ventrum, the cold metal causing him to flinch slightly. 

“Sorry,” Jespa said, optics trained on the screen. Jazz couldn’t really get a good glimpse of it from his position but he surmised that what she was seeing wasn’t too bad, considering the fact that her lips were twitching into the start of an amused smile.

After a few kliks, the silence grew defeaning and Jazz shifted slightly. “Is everything okay?”

“Perfectly so.” Jespa said and before Jazz could think of asking anything, the femme turned the screen to face him directly. The saboteur froze, regarding the image from the blurry display. It was a mixture of black and blue splotches, bits of white peppered here and there as the scanner processed the data. 

He couldn’t quite make out what he was seeing but then again, he wasn’t exactly well versed in this area.

Suddenly, there was movement on the screen and Jazz watched as the splotches slowly focused into something resembling a bot and tiny discernable features slowly became more recognizable.

Jazz felt a small spasm of fear and awe sprout in his chest.

“It has legs.” He stated stupidly, recognizing the thin spindly appendages for what they were among the sea of dark colors.

“Yes,” Jespa said, nodding.

“And arms.”

“Oh, yes and they’re quite well formed too. Normally at this stage of gestation, the bitlet has small nubs but I can see flashes of hands and fingers.” She pointed somewhere near the center of the screen, at a tiny dot of white. “Like here. That’s a thumb.” Optics crinkling at the corner, she added, “And there’s another one here.”

Jazz felt his mouth run dry and he struggled to swallow. Up until now the bitlet had been but an ethereal concept, something he felt and knew but never really fully comprehended. Maybe if he’d chosen to stay in Iacon, it would’ve been different. From the start he would’ve been able to see his creation grow and with Ratchet’s help, maybe even versed himself in the developing bond he still had no understanding of. It wouldn’t have been just a cover or an inconvenience, it’d be an actual living being in the making.

Maybe he would’ve learned how to love it like it deserved to.

Jespa took a look at his face, which was probably morphed into an ugly display of his mixed emotions, and frowned. “Meister. Are you--?”

“It has an extra leg.” He stated suddenly, pointing at the screen and interrupting her mid-question. “Oh, Primus, please tell me that’s not an extra leg.”

The femme glanced at where he was pointing and shook her helm. “No, Meister. That’s not a leg.”

Jazz’s Energon ran cold. “So it’s missing a leg?”

“It’s got all of its limbs intact. No visible abnormalities to speak of.”

A small thumping sound caught the saboteur’s attention he glanced around, frowning slightly when he couldn’t pinpoint the source of where it was coming from. “What’s that?”

“That,” Jespa said, reaching towards the screen and tapping at a small glyph on the lower half of the screen, “is the sound of the bitlet’s sparkbeat.” She turned up the sound a little and a smooth rhythmic beating echoed in the large room, bouncing off the walls and creating a soft hum that was, quite frankly, music to the saboteur’s well trained audials.

Some would argue it was just his carrier protocols making him biased. But he knew a good beat when he heard one...and this...this was one of the few that had the capacity to make his Spark swell with an odd sense of euphoria.

Jespa smiled. “See? You’ve got nothing to worry about. It’s perfectly healthy.” She waited a moment before pulling the scanner back and Jazz mourned the loss of the picture on the screen but he held his glossa, knowing that the check-up wasn’t the only thing he’d come to ask for. Might as well make the trip worthwhile.

The femme helped him back into a sitting position, giving his shoulder a soft pat before she began to wheel the equipment back to its rightful place. Once she finished, she pulled up a stool and sat down in front of the saboteur, a few heads beneath his optic level. “Is there anything else?”

Jazz briefly pursed his lips before saying, “I’ve...made arrangements to go to Iacon in a couple orns, to see the specialist you recommended and all. And, I guess I wanted to ask if you think I’m fit enough to make the journey over.”

She frowned in concern, more of his tone than his words. “What would be the method of transport?”

Soundwave had mentioned, briefly, that the journey would be entirely on foot but Jazz had promptly let him know what a ludicrous idea that had been and they’d descended into a brief argument that’d ended with Soundwave agreeing to renting a small shuttle and making the journey by air. Of course, in order to get to the shuttle, they’d have to make a brief trek and therein lay the question.

“On foot then shuttle.”

“Walking distance?”

Jazz thought it over for a moment. “About...a two joor journey? We’re headed towards the upper level but I did a little investigating and I found out we can commission one of the pilots on the lower level to take us up there.”

Jespa’s lips pursed. “Well, you’re a decently healthy mech. So long as you take frequent rests, are well fueled and don’t try to exert yourself, you should be able to make it.” Before Jazz could relax at the go-ahead, she lifted a finger and said, “we. You said ‘we’. Who exactly would be making the journey with you?”

“An...acquaintance.”

Green optics narrowed disbelievingly. Jazz, however, wasn’t too keen on letting the doctor know every single little detail of his journey. The journey was common knowledge, or at least it would be as soon as he got his leave approved by Aster, but he didn’t want everyone to know the full details because chances were that some bot would think a little hard about the pieces and put things together that were better off left forgotten.

Everyone knew Soundwave was supposedly fragging him. He didn’t need them to know he’d somehow become emotionally invested in his well-being as well.

 “He’s reliable,” Jazz said, raising a placating hand in the air between them. “I trust him to get me where I need to go.” And that was as close to the truth as he’d ever get.

Of course, Jespa remained unconvinced but she didn’t press the matter any further. Instead, she pulled out a datapad and handed it to him. “This is a copy of your medical file,” she explained. “I’ve written up your current care plan so that my colleague can review it and attached several scans of your internal infrastructure and Spark composition. You probably won’t need to show this to him but just in case some information gets lost in the transfer, you’ll have a back-up to remind him that you’re a high-priority case.”

Taking the file with both hands, Jazz couldn’t help but nod appreciatively, smiling. “Thank you, Jespa.”

The femme reached out to place a hand on his knee, hold gentle and gaze firm. “Take care of yourself, Meister.” She paused then added, “And in case we don’t see each other again, good luck.”

After that, there wasn’t much else Jazz could ask or say. Neither of them were much for heartfelt goodbyes and though Jazz would find himself missing the eccentric doctor, he knew he had no choice but to keep moving forward. The best way he could repay her help was by making sure the bitlet emerged safe and sound, and that was a goal Jazz was deadest on achieving.

Whatever came next, Jazz trusted she’d know how to fend for herself.

The silent emptiness of the night cycle had disappeared once Jazz made his way out the door and the hallway lights were alit, bathing the long passageways in the familiar bright white hue that indicated that the work orn had begun.

He hadn’t taken two steps before he got a small message sent to him via databurst and upon checking who the sender was, he stopped mid-step and opened it immediately.

It was Aster and he’d attached a signed copy of his leave request with a dry succinct message that told him it’s status had gone from pending to approved. There was no well-wishing or even a closing remark but Jazz took it for what it was.

He could finally get out this place...and he hadn’t even needed to turn to violence. Relief made him giddy and he gently wrapped his arms around his belly in gratitude.

“You’re a life-saver,” he breathed softly, stubbornly fighting back the stinging sensation in his optics.

After a moment of quiet celebration, Jazz continued on his journey back to Soundwave’s room, back a little straighter and head held high for the first time since he’d arrived. Once, he’d hated being in that room and loathed to ever admit wanting to be in it’s depths under any circumstances, but now Jazz was impatient to get back and tell Soundwave the news.

He knew the telepath would be happy to hear what he had to say and even if they weren’t exactly on the best of terms, Jazz knew there wasn’t anyone else he wanted to see more in that very instant.

It seemed, unfortunately, that emotionality would be his undoing. The path Jazz had first taken to get to Jespa’s office was fine during the night-cycle since almost nobody ever wandered through those specific halls. But during the start of the orn, they were normally always bustling with activity since more than one passage leading to popular places like the guest quarters and dining area.

Jazz turned a corner without taking a moment to gauge his surroundings and when he finally did, he found himself stopping dead in his tracks. Standing there, at the edge of the hall was Reverb and though he was deep in conversation with another bot, Jazz still felt his battle protocols jumpstart online and his vitals dropped to the floor. 

He tried to glance behind him discreetly, trying to catch sight of a room or hall he could sneak into to avoid even having to look at the red host mech but as his luck panned out, there wasn’t much smooth walls and the usual frivolous décor lining them. Maybe if he retraced his steps, moved slowly, no one would notice and he could easily—

“Are you lost?”

Jazz flinched at the sound of that familiar voice and he slowly turned his helm to stare at the mech who’d spoken. Reverb had abandoned his conversation partner and was now sauntering down the hall towards Jazz, hands clasped behind his back and a saccharine smile playing on his lips. He halted a few inches away from Jazz, closer than was socially accepted but just far enough away that Jazz couldn’t complain without seeming overzealous.

Falling in line with the etiquette that had all but been drilled into him since he’d arrived, Jazz dipped his helm in curt greeting.

A warm finger gently crooked underneath his chin and forced his gaze up, the point of contact all but burning a searing hole into the saboteur’s alloy. “Meister,” Reverb reprimanded good-naturedly, “what have I said about propriety? I thought we were friends.”

Jazz swallowed roughly and Reverb felt it, his smile growing just a bit wider as he allowed his thumb to brush against the soft derma and pinch his chin. “You’re not doing something you’re not supposed to be doing, are you?” That orange visor lifted upwards to gaze over the top of Jazz’s helm before invading his personal space. “No illicit rendezvous or anything of the sort, correct?”

His words made a chill run up Jazz’s spinal strut, causing his hands to curl reflectively around his belly. Either Reverb’s taunts were just ironically coincidental or he knew more than he was letting on.

But that wasn’t possible. Jazz had been so careful.

A tiny voice in the back of his mind reminded him that he’d said the same thing about Soundwave and look at where that’d gotten him. The SpecOps agent in him refused to ignore that fact and he prepared himself for the possibility that he’d been compromised; the knife in his subspace burned like a hot iron and he let his mind calculate 567 possible scenerios of where their conversation could be headed. 60 of them ended with Jazz offline, 500 ended in a stalemate and only 7 offered the possibility of successful evasion.

But none guaranteed the survival of his bitlet and that was what ultimately made the saboteur disregard his calculations and remain calm and silent in the host mech’s presence.

It took him a moment but he eventually found his voice and replied, “I was making my way back from seeing Jespa.”

Reverb’s visor remained impassive for a brief klik but then it brightened and that smile morphed into a grin. “Oh? I assume you’ve received good news?”

“Yes...Reverb.”

The lack of a proper title made the host mech’s field ripple with genuine pleasure and he patted Jazz’s cheek affectionately albeit a tad too roughly. “There we go. That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?” His hand landed on Jazz’s shoulder and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “Now spill, what’s got you looking so happy?”

Soothing a wave of panic, Jazz mechanically replied, “My bitlet’s healthy.”

Reverb waited, expecting more but Jazz offered nothing more in the way of an explanation. Visibly deflating, the host mech leaned back with a dramatic groan. “That’s it?”

Jazz resisted the urge to punch him. “Yes.”

The red host mech tilted his helm to one side, arms crossing over his chest. “Well that’s anticlimactic.” His gaze down to Jazz’s ventrum and Jazz immediately placed his hands over his belly, trying his best to make it look as nonchalant as possible. But of course Reverb saw right through it and the band of light across the orange glass flickered into a thin line.

He chuckled once, but it was as dry as the Sea of Rust and just as cold. “Here I was expecting you to be truthful with me,” Reverb said softly.

Jazz balked. “I’m not lying.”

“Oh, of course you’re not. But you are withholding information and that’s no different than if you were standing here telling me you were the Prime’s lover.” Straightening his posture, Reverb lifted a hand to rest his chin on, all smiles. “You’re going on a trip, aren’t you?”

Jazz didn’t even bother wondering where he’d heard that information. He had dozens of little symbionts crawling around in the walls and floors like scraplets, it wouldn’t surprise him if he’d had one listening in on him and Jespa. Thankfully, Jazz’s reason for going to Iacon were completely legitimate and he had no qualms telling the truth to the red host mech.

His expression never changed but Jazz could tell that Reverb had no ground to call his bluff and with the estate’s doctor backing up his story, there was very little he could actually do. Other than killing him and hiding his frame but something told Jazz that given Soundwave’s public ‘infatuation’ with him, Reverb wasn’t too keen on testing the telepath’s patience.

Jazz resisted the urge to smile triumphantly. Things couldn’t have been more convenient even if he’d planned this out himself.

“Jespa’s sent me to see a specialist, to aid me with the emergence process.” Jazz said, keeping his voice as docile as possible. “And Aster’s approved a temporary leave of absence for me until I return.”

“The little thing’s about to emerge, is it?” Reveb smiled down at Jazz’s hands, which were knitted tightly over his belly. “How fun.” Glancing up, he added, “Perhaps we’ll finally get to see who the bitlet’s sire is. Of course, I speak metaphorically. Radiance’s conception taught me that it’s generally the sires who make up the larger portion of the creation’s CNA, even if they aren’t part of the gestation process. But given who’s been helping you recently, I wouldn’t be surprised to see another little Soundwave running about these halls soon.”

That painted a picture Jazz had never truly taken the time to procure and he couldn’t fight the swell of warmth the image of a small round version of the telepath bumbling about on short developing legs, with a navy-blue color scheme, wide gold optics and perhaps even that sharply shaped nose...

Slag. Jazz gave his helm a metaphorical shake; now really was the best time to be thinking about what his creation was going to look like. He first had to worry about actually making it back to Iacon and make sure it got the chance.

However, Reverb didn’t seem to notice his momentary lapse into daydream. “I wonder how our dear friend is going to deal once you’re gone.”

Jazz knew he should have kept quiet. He could tell Reverb was losing interest in the conversation and that a few quips later, he’d probably order Jazz to leave and be on his merry way. But Jazz had had enough of the red mech’s emotional manipulation. Ever since he’d arrived, Jazz had always been on his toes around him, fearing discovery and enduring humiliation for the sake of his bitlet and the mission.

But he was leaving now. And he was never going to come back.

So why not go out with a bang?

“Soundwave won’t have time to miss me,” Jazz said softly. “Because he’s the one accompanying me on my journey.”

Silence met his words. Reverb’s smile froze in place, all hard and sharp edges like the creases in a statue. Ever so slowly, the red mech’s hands crossed tersely over his chest and his mouth twisted into a thin fine line.

“Is he now?” Reverb’s cheerful voice was forced.

Jazz nodded once.

“How quaint.” The red mech said and without another word, he turned around and stalked his way back from where’d he’d come. Jazz waited until the sound of his steps disappeared before he let out a sigh of relief and all but ran back to his room, pausing for nothing and no one until he was shaking and fumbling to press his hand against the matrixpad of the room.

The room was empty when he arrived and though that made a small bit of disappointment sprout in his Spark, it didn’t deter him from wandering over to the berth and curling into the sheets with a shaky sigh escaping his vents.

Safe. Even if the room was empty of Soundwave and his symbionts, this was perhaps the safest room that Jazz had ever been in during his stay at the estate. Strategically speaking, the room was probably in the most precarious of places in the establishment, with thin walls and a creaking ceiling that had woken him up more times than he cared to remember.

But that was just sentimentality speaking, of course. He was glad to finally be getting away; this was no place for his bitlet to be born, much less raised and he was keener on taking his chances in Iacon than he was anywhere else.

Soundwave trusted him enough, maybe even cared enough, to make the journey with him and had even sacrificed his one opportunity to manipulate both factions as a result. Jazz wasn’t too keen on getting his hopes up but he liked to think that meant something.

Jazz could only hope it ended up being worthwhile.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d lain in the berth, perhaps an orn and a half if his chronometer wasn’t off, but when he awoke, it was to a gentle hand on his shoulder shaking him awake and a warm red visor staring down at him expectantly.

Jazz didn’t have to ask any questions.

He knew it was time.

There was nothing that he had to pack, really, other than a few cubes of Energon and coolant from the pantry and the wax and mesh cloth Odeon had given him as a gift. He’d never used the latter, finding the sweet-smelling solution far too floral for his taste but he knew that Iacon was a city that prided itself on the beauty of its physical architecture and the inhabitants were absolutely no different. It wouldn’t hurt to make an effort to look presentable when he met up with Jespa’s contact.

Soundwave proved to be just as frugal, his only luggage being all six of his symbionts tucked carefully away in his chest compartment and several cubes of Energon in his subspace. His blue paint was shining a bit brighter and when Jazz got close to him, he realized that he’d washed up and polished himself to a perfect shine.

He looked...good. Not that Jazz was looking or anything.

They took a more secluded path towards the front entrance of the estate, carefully avoiding the couriers and guests with a practical ease that reminded Jazz of his cover op days back during the war. For a brief moment, he felt like himself again and he reveled in the warmth the feeling produced.

They arrived in the foyer in record time and Jazz felt like he was walking on air when Soundwave opened the door and stepped outside, pausing at the bottom of the steps and offering Jazz a hand.

The saboteur grimaced. “I’m not an invalid.”

Soundwave dipped his helm. “Soundwave, knows this.”

Jazz huffed but he still reached out and placed his hand in Soundwave’s palm and those warm blue fingers held his ever so gently as they helped him balance his way down the rather inclined steps. Once his feet touched the lower ground, Jazz gently pried his hand away and held it at his side, looking at the long path that led to the exit gates just below.

For a moment, it all seemed so surreal. He’d been trying for quartexes to get out of this place and get back home and now suddenly, he was kliks away from just walking away. The mission, the taxing work, Argyrus, they’d all tried to bring him down but he’d endured, silently and surely, and now he was the one standing tall.

A hand came to rest over his ventrum and he smiled.

“Soundwave?”

Jazz and Soundwave both whipped their helms around at the sound of the baritone and Jazz reached out to grasp Soundwave’s hand, gripping it like the lifeline that it was.

The telepath was more serene, facing the red mech at the top of the stairs with a calm collected air. “Reverb.”

That orange visor flickered and a look of genuine resignation crossed Reverb’s face. “So it’s true, isn’t it?” He gestured at Jazz with a jerk of his helm. “You’re really going off with...him.”

Jazz felt Soundwave’s thumb brush against the back of his tense fingers before he too was gripping the sabotuer’s hand tightly. “Affirmative.”

“You know that bitlet isn’t yours, right? It’s Argyrus’ and when it emerges, you’ll be reminded orn after orn that you’re just scrambling to pick up someone else’s leftovers.” Jazz couldn’t help but look up at the telepath, morbid curiosity itching to see just how the mech would react to such loaded words. 

Soundwave glanced at Jazz and when their gazes met, there was an inexplicable shift in the air around them. It was soft, barely noticeable, but Jazz could both tell that it was there. There was a softness to that red visor and Jazz swore that if Reverb hadn’t hopped down in front of the blue host mech, he probably would’ve gotten lost in those vermillion depths.

The red host mech placed a hand over the plexiglass of Soundwave’s docking chamber, orange visor hopeful. “We’re your family, Sounders.”

“Soundwave, knows this.”

“Then why are you running away?” There was a note of desperation in Reverb’s tone, a visible break in that easy-going façade he was always wearing. It caught Jazz by surprise and had it been under any other circumstances, he probably would have preened. But that look he was aiming at Soundwave was far too familiar to the saboteur for it to be funny. 

Jazz had looked at Soundwave the same way all those quartexes ago; on the shuttle back to Iacon after their first mission and in that dirty little alley in Tarn. With a burning desire to be noticed and a deep-seated hope that his feelings would somehow be reciprocated. 

Soundwave placed his free hand over Reverb’s, gripping it tightly. “Soundwave, not running away.” He gently lowered the red mech’s hand down from his chest. “Soundwave, making amends.” 

Before Reverb could say anything the telepath reached out and pulled Reverb into an awkward one armed hug, the intimate act somehow managing to look a tad bit too professional given both mechs’ sharp boxy frames and stiff postures. 

But then Reverb returned the gesture full-heartedly, both his arms coming up to wrap around Soundwave’s torso with his chin resting on the blue mech’s shoulder. 

“You’ll come back.” Reverb said and it wasn’t even a question. “You always do.” 

When Soundwave pulled back, he simply murmured, “Reverb, take care.” Switching Jazz’s hand to his other one, the telepath turned on his heels and pulled the saboteur along with him, head high and visor focused on the path ahead. 

Jazz could feel Reverb’s gaze on his back, sharp and prickling, but he didn’t dare look back. The guards opened the gate after Soundwave offered an explanation of their departure and it was only after his feet crossed the threshold of the estate’s grounds that Jazz allowed himself the opportunity to finally look up at the telepath. 

“You don’t have to hold my hand,” he quipped. “I can walk just fine on my own.” 

Soundwave let out a warble that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Soundwave, wishes to.” He looked at Jazz. “Jazz, does not?” 

“I’ll slow you down,” Jazz warned.

“Destination, not far. Soundwave, prepared alternate routes in case of delays.” 

Jazz scoffed, “you think of everything, don’t you?” 

“Affirmative.” 

A smile spread across Jazz’s lips and he quickly turned his attention on the road ahead. With a gentle squeeze of his hand, Soundwave let go and the two of them lapsed into a comfortable silence as they started on the first leg of what they both knew would be a long and exhausting journey.

But neither of them found it in themselves to really mind.  


	27. When In Iacon

_“He painted over her scars_

_with every color he could find_

_until she lost them_

_in the setting sun.”_

\--Atticus

 

 

Iacon was different.

Jazz couldn’t really offer a concrete explanation of why that was the first thought that popped into his mind when Soundwave docked the shuttle in a small busy space-port but he knew that the city he was coming back to wasn’t the same one he’d left.

Maybe it was the air. When he stepped outside, the air smelled more aridic than he remembered, burning his vents and leaving an odd metallic taste on his glossa.

Or perhaps it was the bots. The dock worker who greeted them was a stout little mech with a permanent frown etched onto his faceplates, green optics narrowed as he swept his gaze over the two bots and then proceeded to write down the shuttle’s information into a datapad. He offered no kind words as he demanded identification, which Soundwave offered before Jazz had the opportunity to fret, nor when he drilled them both about what the slag they were doing in the city in the first place.

Rarely had there ever been a reason to offer such information when traveling between cities but Jazz took the added security as an example of just how much had changed since his last visit.

After explaining that they were in the city to aid in the emergence of their creation, the dock worker finally let them pass and Jazz let out a sigh of relief when they weaved their way through the docked ships and finally made it to the streets.

The architecture was the same, with its gleaming towering spirals that glinted gold in the light of rising sun and carefully crafted overhead trafficking routes that crisscrossed between them. Strong stable alloy was beneath their feet, no more grates like there had been in Uraya and the real sky was visible through the gaps in the buildings.

Jazz had never really cared about looking up before, because there’d been more than enough keeping his focus on the ground...but for some reason, the sky looked pretty fraggin’ incredible and had Soundwave not nudged him to keep on moving, he would’ve stayed there gawking like an idiot.

He saw no visible signs of dissension but he could tell that bots were on edge. Whenever he accidentally brushed against a few of them, they whirled around with panic in their optics and only upon seeing his small stature and obvious carrying state, they’d pursed their lips and kept on moving. Soundwave kept himself at Jazz’s back during the whole trek, looming like some protective shadow that reminded bots not to interact unless they wanted trouble.

It made Jazz uneasy.

They walked for some time, wandering through the busy city center before coming to a stop at a busy intersection and Jazz took the opportunity to look at Soundwave and ask, “you got a plan on where we’re staying?”

Soundwave nodded, “Lodging, already booked.” He pointed a finger across the street, to the big gleaming red and green glyphs that advertised a rather decent looking hotel. Definitely an improvement from the ones they’d stayed at.

“Oh.” Jazz didn’t bother asking the how or the why. Soundwave was proving to be one step ahead of him.

When the light turned blue and indicated that it was safe to cross, Soundwave placed a hand on Jazz’s shoulder and helped steer him through the throng of bots, using his shoulders to keep the jostling to a minimum all the way until they’d reached the front entrance of their destination.

The reception area of the hotel was nice and clean, smelling of pleasantly burned sweets with a nice silver paint scheme and dark blue décor. A shiny drone sat behind the desk, offering a prerecorded welcome message before asking if they had a reservation. Soundwave offered the necessary information and payment and not long after they were handed the key to their room and making their way into the building.

It was a rather long walk to the nearest lift, their path forcing them through what appeared to be an elaborate dining hall, and Jazz soon found his gait lessening as his exhaustion caught up to him. Glancing around, he saw a small padded bench against a wall and all but limped over to it, sitting down and letting out a sigh of relief when his joints let out audible hisses of relieved tension.

Soundwave knelt in front of him, red visor attentive. “Jazz, unwell?”

The saboteur took a few deep vents before shaking his helm. “Nah, I’m fine. Just a little tired.”

It occurred to Jazz that he hadn’t exactly been keeping up with Jespa’s recommendation as well as he should’ve. He’d taken but two breaks on the whole duration of the journey, excitement and anticipation making him careless, and he’d truly thought he could make it through the last leg of the journey. But his frame was lacking the modifications and agility that’d allowed him to power on during trying times and the addition of the bitlet drained his energy much faster.

He’d reached his limit, apparently.

Soundwave glanced around their surroundings for a brief moment before he rose to his feet. “Soundwave, can carry Jazz.”

The saboteur shook his helm, fighting his drowsiness. “Nah, mech. I got this. Just gimme...a minute.” Slag, had the lights always been so bright in here? Despite the incommodity, Jazz tried, unsuccessfully, to get to his feet and it was only Soundwave’s careful arms that caught him before he wobbled and nearly fell face first into the floor.

Apparently, the room was now also spinning.

Soundwave let out a soft huff through his vents. “Jazz, can rest.” He said softly and before the saboteur had the opportunity to ask what he meant by that, the telepath fluidly scooped him up into his arms.

Jazz’s visor dimmed as soon as his cheek pressed against the warm plexiglass of Soundwave’s docking chamber and he allowed himself to go lax in the host mech’s grip, finding his newfound state far too comfortable to even consider arguing. As his optics offlined and his frame slowed down to go into recharge, the last thing Jazz remembered hearing was Soundwave’s Spark beating behind the glass barrier and a stray thought crossed his mind about how it was the most soothing thing in the world.

He didn’t check his chronometer when he woke up but he could tell by the dark light outside and the turned-on lamps in the room that he’d slept through most of the orn. But he couldn’t bring himself to care; he felt invigorated, as if he’d been missing out on sleep until now and his frame ached less than it had before.

Rising into a sitting position at the edge of the berth, he realized that he was alone. There was no one else in the room but the prickle along the back of his neck alerted him of the presence of familiar optics watching his every move and he knew that though he couldn’t see them, one of Soundwave’s symbionts was keeping an optic on him.

Which was fine. It wasn’t like he could do anything and even if he could, he had a different priority to focus on at that moment.

He subspaced a cube of Energon and cracked it open, giving it a few tasting sips before settling it in his lap and letting his gaze wander around the room. It was a modest little thing, bigger than Soundwave’s room had been back at the estate and with a wide variety of furniture to give it a homelier feel. But the thing that caught Jazz’s attention the most was the huge monitor screen on the opposite end of the room and he rose to his feet, stalking over with an air of anticipation.

How long had it been since he’d had access to a source of news that wasn’t entirely word from mouth? Too long, he surmised as he picked up the thin remote laying on a sill beneath the huge display and beginning to fumble with the buttons.

It took a moment for him to turn it on but when he did, he was met with the soft colors of a soap opera and he quickly changed the channel until he arrived at something actually worthwhile. A news outlet was having it’s anchors converse about the fall of the shanix’s value and the economy but Jazz grew weary after just a few nanokliks of listening in.

So he changed the channel again and he froze upon seeing another reporter frantically talking to the screen, a red band underneath their face reading “Riot at Hall of Records.” Just underneath it in smaller fainter letters, it listed six causalities.

Breath catching in his vents, Jazz turned up the volume and the reporter let out a shuddering sigh, as if he were taking a moment to collect himself before continuing. But he hadn’t uttered a word before the sound of the door opening had Jazz jumping out of his struts and turning off the monitor as quick as his hands would allow.

Glancing over his shoulder, he caught sight of Soundwave making his inside, a datapad in hand and a white box balanced on top of it. He knew freezing up would only make him more suspicious, so he pivoted on his heel and fixed Soundwave with a stern look which hiding the remote behind his back.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Running errands.” Soundwave replied, crossing the space between them and sticking out the white box in Jazz’s direction.

“What’s this?"

“Rust sticks.” The telepath said simply and the word hadn’t left his mouth before Jazz was eagerly taking it and popping the lid open. There was an assortment of the odd treat inside, from zirconium bases sprinkled with copper to sweet and salty zinc with gold shavings. Jazz took on the traditional kind first, pulling two out and popping one into his mouth with a satisfied hum of his engine.

“Primus, I’ve missed these.” He breathed, visor dimming in contentment as he savored.

Swallowing, he took the other between his lips and sucked softly on it. His gaze went to the datapad that Soundwave was still holding and he set the box down on the nearest surface (the desk) and pointed at it. “Mind telling me what that is?”

Soundwave glanced at the datapad in question and nodded. “Jespa’s contact, located in clinic 4 kliks from this location. Soundwave, scheduled consultation for the next orn.”

Oh. Jazz wasn’t too sure how he felt about that. Granted, he’d had done that in a sparkbeat if he hadn’t fallen into recharge so the appointment wasn’t really irking him. But what did cross wires was how the telepath had done so without even discussing it with him. _He_ was the one who was supposed to be in charge of all of this, not Soundwave. And yet the telepath was already taking charge like some overzealous bondmate when in reality he was nothing more than a glorified babysitter.

He bit down a little too roughly on the rust stick in his mouth and the squeak of the crushed metal made him wince but he said nothing apart from a stiff little nod. He really wasn’t in the mood to argue.

Pushing aside any and all inhibitions, Jazz took the box of rust sticks and retook his place on the berth, kicking his feet up and placing the open box on the soft blue sheets next to his hip. He whipped out the control for the remote, ignoring Soundwave’s silent look, and turned on the monitor screen. Quickly, he changed the channels until he got back to the one about the soap opera and pretended to be absorbed, munching on the rust sticks with abandon.

It took him four whole kliks to realize that Soundwave had remained standing in place and the saboteur turned to face him with an incredulous expression after the opening credits of a new episode rolled over the screen. “Got something more to say?"

Soundwave sighed, “Negative.”

“Great. Then skedaddle. I’m about to start laughing hysterically at every bad pun that comes on this show and the last thing you want is to be here and listen.”

Soundwave tilted his helm to one side. “Soundwave, cannot leave.”

 Jazz frowned. “Why not?”

“Only one room, booked.”

Silence. In the background, the overdramatic monologue of the main character spilled through the speakers of the vid screen and sappy horrible music rose up to accompany it.

Jazz turned his helm to stare at the screen, face stony. “Did they run out of rooms?”

“Negative.”

The saboteur shrugged. “Then you can go down and ask for another one.”

“Negative. Funds, insufficient.”

Shaking his helm, Jazz murmured. “How convenient.” Muting the vidscreen audio, he returned his gaze to Soundwave and nearly did a double take upon realizing that the telepath was now standing directly beside the berth.

“You don’t have to do this,” Jazz explained succinctly, scooting back to rest against the plush pillows to accommodate the growing ache in his spinal strut. “This whole helicopter routine isn’t necessary. You’re here to help me make sure I get the procedure but then after that, we’re not obligated to be in each other’s company anymore. You’re going to do whatever it is you want and I’m going to stay here.”

Soundwave’s visor flared. “Jazz, stated plans to return to the estate.”

Jazz let out a scoff. “You really think I’m going to go back there to raise my bitlet? To the place crawling with murderers and liars, a few of which would love to stab a knife in my back?” His hand fisted into the covers underneath him in mounting fury. “To the bots that want to see the only friends I have left rust in the Pit? Please, you can’t be that stupid, Sounders.”

An odd look crossed the telepath’s visor at those words and he glanced away, fixating on the moving bots and colors on the display across the room. But Jazz knew he wasn’t watching the show, he was thinking. A dangerous thing for someone like Soundwave and Jazz prepared himself for a long confrontation, coupled with a few terse looks, angry words and perhaps even a dramatic storming out.

The conflict never came.

Instead, Soundwave turned to regard Jazz and he very slowly knelt down so that the two of them were at face-level. “Jazz, must refuel.”

Taken back by the sudden change in subject, Jazz replied, “I already have my fuel right here.” He patted the box of rust sticks beside him. “These’ll keep me going.”

“Negative,” Soundwave said and reached over to pluck the box out of Jazz’s reach, ignoring the look of bewilderment on the saboteur’s face. “Rust sticks, not a sustainable source of fuel."

“So? You’re not my doctor. And you’re sure as heck not one to tell me what I can or can’t do.” Jazz made a half-hearted lunge for the box but Soundwave seamlessly pulled it out of reach and shook his helm, solidifying his position on the matter.

Jazz huffed unhappily, crossing his arms over his chassis. “Why’d you even get them if you weren’t going to let me eat them?”

“Rust sticks, intended as treat. Jazz, has proven to be...illogical regarding consumption.”

The saboteur let out a meek laugh. “Hah. You’re starting to sound just like Shockwave. What’s next, you going to lecture me on all the best positions to make me—ow.” Wincing, the silver mech placed a hand over his ventrum and curled into himself a little.

Soundwave stiffened at the tiny sound of discomfort, visor brightening as he scanned Jazz’s face. “Jazz, alright?”

Was he ever. Jazz took a few steadying breaths to calm himself down as the pain subsided and he didn’t dare glance up to look at Soundwave until he knew he could control his facial expressions. The bitlet had kicked the side of the gestation chamber, hard, and though it’d become a common occurrence, the pain hadn’t gotten any better. He wasn’t sure if he was relaying a look of pain or awe but the saboteur knew that Soundwave probably wouldn’t respond well to either.

“Just my fuel tank acting up,” Jazz lied, straightening up with a forced smile. “Guess I really am hungry.”

Soundwave looked he didn’t believe him but he knew better than to argue so he rose to his feet and offered Jazz a hand in getting up from the berth. Jazz accepted it with some muttered thanks, mostly because he wasn’t in the mood to undergo the battle of standing on his own and because he knew that their argument was postponed.

The hotel was situated next to a nice eatery, the outdoors menu offering a varied gastronomy that had dishes from Praxus, Polyhex and even a few organic foods that were considered safe to eat by Cybertronian standards. Soundwave paused in front of it, casting an inquisitive look at Jazz who promptly shook his helm.

He wasn’t in the mood to eat expensive foods. He wanted something simple and fulfilling, like those rust sticks that the host mech had confiscated. Granted, he didn’t say that out loud because he knew Soundwave would ask what exactly he wanted and Jazz wasn’t completely sure of how to answer.

So he shrugged and Soundwave took that as a cue that they should continue. The streets were busier than they had been when they’d first arrived but the bright lights and lively buzz from the bars and cafes didn’t deter the saboteur. Instead, it made him want to keep going forward.

Unlike Uraya, there weren’t so many dark corners and shady looking figures. Most bots were intellectuals and their shiny plating and sure eloquent voices made them easily distinguishable and Jazz couldn’t help but feel a little self-conscious. An oddity since he’d always known how to use his charms and good looks interchangeably regardless of the situation but it was hard to do so when his frame was duller than Unicron’s aft and his posture haggard from the journey and added mass.

The realization slightly dampened his mood and his faltered a little but he kept pace with Soundwave, trying to occupy his mind by glancing around to see if he recognized a place where they could stop by. Unfortunatley, when they came to a stoplight, the saboteur realized nothing was familiar and he deferred himself to Soundwave’s guidance.

As soon as the light changed, they quickly crossed to the other sector and as soon as their feet touched the edge of the walkway, Jazz felt a tap on his shoulder and he whirled around in surprise, one hand rising up in case he needed to defend himself.

There was a bot there but they weren’t attacking and though they were large and bulky, they didn’t seem to be doing anything that warranted such an intense reaction. Soundwave quickly put a hand over Jazz’s chest and made a move to push the silver mech behind him but Jazz held his ground, putting a placating hand on a white arm and shaking his helm. Curious, he glanced at the bot who’d stopped him and offered an inquisitive tilt of his head.

“Can I help you?”

A grin parted the stranger’s face, happy but respectful. “Forgive me if I’m assuming, but are you a carrier?”

Jazz struggled to keep his composure calm but he managed a meek smile and a brief nod. It was too obvious not to lie. Cybertronian frames never became distended for any other reason, after all.

“Congratulations!” The bot pressed their palms together in a gesture of joy, optics focusing on Jazz’ belly. “My mate and I are trying for one too so it’s really inspiring to see more and more bots turning to something other than forging and cold-construction. When’s the date of emergence?”

Jazz’s smile faltered. “Soon,” he answered enigmatically. He was growing less and less fond of the bot’s enthusiasm and the stream of questions were pulling the last straws of the saboteur’s patience. Wrapping his arm around Soundwave’s arm, he stepped back and dipped his helm in faux apology. “Apologies, but my bondmate and I have somewhere to be.”

Not waiting for an answer, Soundwave understood Jazz’s cues and gently herded him away from the bot, who remained standing with a dumfounded look on their face.

When they were far enough away, Jazz let go of the telepath’s arm and dusted himself off. “I slagging hate this.”

“Interest, not uncommon.”

Jazz glanced up at Soundwave, unamused. “Yes, because being sparked up accidentally and having the weight of the world on your shoulders is a huge cause for celebration.” He ignored Soundwave’s flinch at the words and gave their surroundings one more glance before a bright yellow neon sign caught his attention.

“Why don’t we try there?”

Soundwave followed Jazz’s line of vision and asked, “Jazz, sure?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t sure.”

Soundwave relented and when they made their way to the small eatery, they were greeted warmly by a drone and guided into a small booth near the corner of the establishment, holographic menus handed to them before being left on their own.

The place was empty, save for a couple of mechs a few tables down and the staff working in the kitchen through the small pick-up window on the other side of the room. It smelled a little off, like cheap motor oil, and both of them knew that they’d settled for something a little too homey but neither made a move to go.

Jazz made a cursory glance at the offered items on the menu and pointed at the first thing that caught his attention. “Rust sticks and oxygenated Energon.”

Soundwave hummed but said nothing in turn. A wise choice given the look Jazz was giving him that all but dared him to respond.

A few moments later, Soundwave put his menu down and the drone who’d greeted them in wheeled over to take their orders. The process was warm and professional, with no small-talk and Jazz let out a sigh when they were left alone. One of the bots in the establishment let out a small guffaw that echoed loudly off the walls and Soundwave turned his helm ever so slightly to catch a glimpse of them.

They didn’t appear to catch his attention and he returned his gaze to Jazz, clasping his hands over the table.

It was awkward. Painfully so. Both were trying hard not to make optic contact with one another but despite their obvious experience with espionage and communications, they faltered and occasionally locked gazes when they snuck glances thinking the other wasn’t looking.

In the end, Jazz got tired of all the tip-toeing around and tried to make some conversation. He pointed at Soundwave’s chest compartment. “Where are you little minions?”

Soundwave replied seamlessly, “Symbionts, not present. Completing individualized tasks.” He quickly added, “examples: recon and information gathering.”

Jazz’s brows knitted together. “For what?”

“Jazz’s protection.”

The saboteur didn’t know how to respond to that. Luckily, he was saved from answering by the drone arriving with their food and they both eagerly took that as an opportunity to table their conversation. The rust sticks were worse than Jazz anticipated but they were salty and crunchy and good enough for now. However, the oxygenated Energon tasted off and Jazz pushed it aside with a grimace.

Soundwave glanced up, sans facemask and in the middle of putting a red Energon jelly into his mouth. “Drink, unsatisfactory?”

“Yep.” He frowned, “Guess it’s just my oral sensors acting up again. Sucks, because this looks like it tastes good."

Glancing at the abandoned drink on the table’s edge, Soundwave contemplated something for a moment before he grabbed his own drink, unleaded Energon, and pushed it across the table towards Jazz.

The saboteur looked at it then the telepath, confusion rippling in his field.

Soundwave pushed the drink a few more inches forth before retreating his hand. “Jazz, can have Soundwave’s.”

“What are you going to drink? Those jellies look too fragging dry to power through on your own.” Jazz’s nose scrunched slightly. “And you hate oxygenated stuff.”

A blue shoulder rose and fell in a shrug. “Soundwave, will manage.” Then the telepath continued with his meal, quietly chewing and keeping his gaze downward.

An odd feeling of warmth blossomed in Jazz’s chest at the gesture but he stubbornly pushed it down, chastising himself for being so gullible. But he allowed himself a few instances to glance up at the telepath and the sight of the host mech’s lower face reignited the warmth, causing a heat to bloom underneath Jazz’ visor.

He cursed and stuffed several rust sticks into his mouth, manners be damned. A stray piece of rust had him coughing a little roughly when it went down the wrong pipe and he was forced to take a few swigs of the unleaded Energon to wash it out.

To Jazz’s chagrin, it tasted absolutely delicious. He took a few more gulps and set the half-empty cube down, focusing on finishing his rust sticks.

But before he could even reach down and pluck one of the sticks from his platter, an odd feeling rippled through the air. The noise of the other mechs seemed to drown out and a chill went down his spinal strut, cold and sharp. Jazz couldn’t really pin a name on the sensation but he’d had plenty of experience with it in the past and it made his helm snap up and his visor flare in alarm.

His systems didn’t have time to scan anything.

One nanoklik, he was staring into the distance and then the world was turning and the next moment, his face was being pressed against clear plexiglass, a warm weight surrounding him as a cacophony of shattering crystals and cracking booms echoed in his audials and tremors shook the floor so hard, Jazz swore his dentae were chattering.

Jazz lay frozen, optics shuttered and the coldness of the ground against his back seeping into his seams and making his struts ache. The noise lasted for a few moments before it abruptly ended and only the gradual blaring of sirens and broken alarms took their place. A few screams could be heard and the sound of crunching glass beneath heavy footsteps was ultimately what prompted Jazz to open his optics.

He was met with the cover of Soundwave’s docking chamber and as he looked to and fro, he realized that the telepath was draped over him, on his hands and knees and caging the saboteur in.

Shocked, Jazz began to struggle but Soundwave quickly stifled the saboteur’s curses by placing a hand over his mouth and leaning his helm back to shake it vehemently. There were cracks in his red visor, chips near the outer edges and his white facemask was caked with what looked to be like dust.

Jazz felt his Energon run cold in his lines as realization slowly dawned on him.

“Sounders...” he breathed, voice muffled by the telepath’s blue hand.

Soundwave gently took off his hand and said, “Jazz, alright?”

“Yeah...I mean, my back hurts and I don’t think anything—wait---the bitlet! What happened to the bitlet?!” Jazz’s struggles renewed as he strove to glance down at his belly and he managed to connect the heel of one of his palms with Soundwave’s chin and the momentum was enough to send the telepath reeling and allow Jazz room to prop himself up on one arm, the other’s hand falling to the gentle and unharmed curve of his belly.

A quick internal scan revealed that nothing was damaged, only a few dents here and there but Jazz could feel the bitlet’s energy through their makeshift bond, strong and steady.

He let out a shaky breath, utterly relieved. Allowing himself to reveal in the brief victory, he turned to regard Soundwave, who was sitting back on his heels, rubbing his aching jaw and had his EM field flaring like crazy.

Looking back, Jazz would say it was instinct that drove him but in that moment, all he could think of doing was reaching out and cupping the telepath’s face in his hands, fingers brushing off dirt and searching for injuries.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Jazz breathed softly, refusing to look anywhere but at Soundwave. He felt one of the telepath’s hands settle on one of his knees, squeezing in reassurance and the touch was like a tether, helping the saboteur hold onto that little bit of rationale that was keeping him from spiraling. 

The sound of a wheel turning made both bots turn in time to catch sight of the greeting drone making its way towards them, burned and dented and missing an arm but staring at them with attentive optiscs.

“There has been an emergency,” it droned, voice now a completely different low-pitched tone. It didn’t foucus on the damage to the establishment, just them. “Is assistance required?”

Jazz opened his mouth to reply but Soundwave beat him to it. “Meister, is a carrier,” he said, gesturing at the saboteur with a jerk of his chin. “Medical assistance, necessary.”

“Understood. First responders are on their way. Please, remain in this location until assistance arrives.” With that, the bot wheeled away and Jazz turned to look at Soundwave with an incredulous look.

“What are you doing? You’re hurt too—!” Another scream, high-pitched and full of pain, cut the saboteur off and Jazz flinched, glancing up at the broken windows of the establishment with a wary look in his visor. From their vantage point, they couldn’t see outside but it didn’t take mych imagination to visualize the scene outside. He could see bits of the structure were damaged, stained with scorch marks and missing chunks that reminded Jazz far too much of what a battlefield looked like after a decimator was unleashed upon it.

He could tell right away, without even analyzing at the damage, that it was the work of an explosive. Of course, giving the limited amount of collision sights, the eatery had been a good distance away from the point of impact and all the damage was nothing more than residue from the expected shockwave.

He shivered and glanced at Soundwave. “There was a bomb.” It wasn’t a question.

Soundwave nodded, “affirmative.”

Jazz bit his lower lip, dentae gnawing as he thought about what to say. ‘Thank you’ teetered on the tip of his glossa; it had been Soundwave’s quick thinking that had ultimately helped him prevent being caught with the brunt of the damages, after all. If he hadn’t shielded him with his frame, Jazz surmised something worse could have possibly happened given how his own was but that of a courier, not a warrior.

But then there was the question of where the bomb had come from. Bombs were weapons of terror during peacetime and only one bot came to mind when Jazz pondered over who or what would be willing to unleash one during the busiest time in Iacon’s city center.

Only one bot who had any idea where they were in the first place.

“Was it you?” Jazz asked, leaving subtlety to the air.

Soundwave looked taken back by the question but he quickly regained his composure and shook his helm. “Negative.”

“Soundwave...”

“Soundwave, not responsible.” The telepath said firmly, voice colder than normal. “Reverb, not responsible.”

Jazz’s optics narrowed slightly, recalculating the telepath’s body language and tone, trying to see if there were any tells that his systems could pick up. “You don’t know that,” he said, exasperated. “Stop trying to defend him.”

The telepath looked away roughly, hands clenching. But he said nothing and Jazz wasn’t sure if the silence was a sign of a victory or a defeat. Or even who either belonged to.

Uncomfortable on the floor, Jazz asked Soundwave if he could stand and the telepath said he could albeit shakily. He wasn’t too keen on moving Jazz but when the saboteur still went ahead and moved anyway, he decided it was safer to assist rather than leave Jazz to his own devices.

Once Jazz was safely sitting back in the seat he’d been occupying before the incident, Soundwave allowed himself to take a look around and the alarm in his EM field seemed to lessen.

“Situation, not catastrophic.”

Jazz gave him an affronted look. “A bomb’s still a bomb.” Nonetheless, Jazz craned his helm to take a peek outside and sure enough, there wasn’t as much destruction as they’d anticipated. The lights were still working in some establishments and no buildings appeared to have collapsed. No bodies littered the streets either though a few bots were sitting on the edge of the walkway with Energon soaked rags dabbing at cuts and bruises.

Sirens pierced the buzz of anxious conversations and activity and a few bots with red paneling rushed through the streets, stopping to analyze injured and checking the structural integrity of buildings.

A mech eventually made their way where Jazz and Soundwave were residing and after asking the other two mechs in the establishment if they were alright, he rushed over towards the two of them.

“You the carrier mech I was informed of?” The red mech asked, kneeling in front of Jazz.

Jazz nodded, “Meister. And yes, that’s me.”

Nodding in affirmation, the mech pulled a small hand-held scanner from his subspace and waved it over Jazz, the pale blue light making the saboteur’s alloy prickle. Once it was done scanning, it blinked green and the mech offered a curt smile. “No life-threatening injuries, it seems. You were lucky.”

“Lucky?” Jazz asked, the word making him frown.

“Another carrier was in the vicinity during the explosion. The shock, coupled with their injuries, made them lose their bitlet. It was messy and very unfortunate.”

“Oh.” Jazz glanced at Soundwave from the corner of his visor, Sparkbeat quickening.

A comforting hand placed itself atop his knee and the red mech said, “Don’t worry. You’re fine. But I recommend going to a medical facility to run further tests, to make sure there isn’t something we may have missed. Our scanners are good but they’re not a replacement for state of the art equipment.”

Rising to their feet, the red mech turned to look at Soundwave. “Do you mind if I scan you?”

“Negative,” Soundwave said, standing still and undergoing the same procedure as Jazz. The scanner beeped red near the telepath’s hips and the medic frowned slightly as he glanced at the reader on the device.

“Seems like you got some debris wedged in one of your hip rotators.” He gestured to the seat opposite the one Jazz was occupying. “Sit down and I’ll dislodge it in a jiffy.”

The telepath obeyed and Jazz watched with muted interest as the red mech performed some quick and terse little rotation of Soundwave’s knee that made a loud pop sound and then a tiny bit of twisted metal slipped out of the telepath’s seams. Soundwave didn’t even flinch.

“You’ve got some minor abrasions on your back plating,” the responding mech finished, putting his scanner away. “Like I told your mate, get yourselves into a medical facility and get a more thorough checking. If any of you saw anything, please make sure to seek out an Enforcer and fill out a witness statement.”

With that, he offered them a small ticket with verification of service and ran out to continue with his triage.

Jazz watched him go, turning to rest his gaze on the telepath. Soundwave met his stare head on.

“Jazz, must seek—.”

“I want to go back.” Jazz said softly, feeling more tired than he’d felt in eons.

“Recommendation, was to seek medical attention.”

The saboteur closed his optics for a moment. “Please,” he whispered. “Let’s just go.”

Soundwave gave in with surprising ease. “Affirmative,” he said, and walked over to help Jazz to his feet. Jazz was surprisingly steady on his feet despite everything, the only indication of his turmoil being the way he gripped his hands over his belly and the slight hunch of his shoulders. Soundwave knew that it wasn’t because he was alright, quite the opposite in fact; but after quartexes of navigating a complex social hierarchy as an uncover agent and even more vorns of war, Jazz had learned how to force a calm composure.

If not for himself, more so for the creation he was carrying.

The telepath placed his arm around Jazz’s shoulders, the touch meant to be nothing more than professional as they made their way out of the eatery but the saboteur leaned into it, pressing against Soundwave’s side with a silent sigh. The street was alit with helicopters and search lights, officials running around herding bystanders and injured mechs to the designated areas and so it was difficult to see where the damage originated from apart from the shattered windows.

The two mechs tried to make their way away through a side alley but the found themselves being stopped by an Enforcer, who told them that they weren’t allowed to go anyway but through the designated checkpoints.

Soundwave tried to explain that they were eager to make it home but the Enforcer, a tall silver Seeker, didn’t seem too keen on believing their story.

At least until he walked close enough to see Jazz. Narrowed gold optics softened slightly and his optic ridges furrowed slightly. “You the carrier mech the EMT’s been talking about?”

Jazz shrugged. “If they’re talking about the cranky mech who wants to get back home because my interfacing drives just kicked back online full force and I want to be drilled into the berth, then yeah, probably.”

Soundwave’s vocalizer let out a choked warble and the Seeker huffed, amused. “Slag, you talk to your bitlet with that mouth?” Before Jazz had the chance to reply, the Seeker gestured for them to follow. “Come on, I’ll show you to through the checkpoint. It’s not far.”

In the end, the Seeker proved to be a decent guide and with only a few sparse explanations, he’d helped Soundwave and Jazz through the barricade and waved them off with a cordial twitch of his wings once they were through.

The trip back to the hotel was largely uneventful and the little drone at the front desk greeted them happily upon recognizing them. It didn’t ask any questions or try any small talk and Jazz was forever thankful for that.

When they opened their door to their room, they were meet by six worried symbionts and a barrage of questions. Rumble and Frenzy weaved through Soundwave’s legs, demanding to know what had happened while Lazerbeak and Buzzsaw circled Jazz worriedly. Ravage was the only one who managed to keep her cool, though her tail flicked tensely over the floor from where she sat.

“You two were in the central district, weren’t you?” She sniffed the air between them and grimaced. “I can smell it on you.”

Jazz let out a sigh. “Not tonight, Ravage.”

Ravage’s optics narrowed. “Then when, Jazz? You’re no longer at the estate anymore. You can’t just ignore what’s happening.”

“Who says I’m ignoring this?” The saboteur hissed, patience waning. “Me and Sounders got unlucky and I’m tired and my back’s killing me and I really don’t have time for another one of your hissy fits so please, frag off, why don’t you?” With that, the saboteur stalked off to the washracks and slammed the door behind him.

Every else flinched at the sound and then immediately glanced at Ravage with less than amused expressions.

“Geez Rav, why’d you go and do that for?” Rumble asked.

Ravage bared her teeth, “do what?”

“You slagging know what!” It was Frenzy this time and he stepped forward with his arms crossed tersely over his chest. “Jazz is finally warming up to us and you keep acting like that’s the worst possible thing to ever happen. You keep antagonizing him and making him angry and we’re all so tired of your—.”

“You don’t realize what’s happening, do you?” Ravage hissed, stepping forward and cutting the other symbiont off. Her gaze swept over her siblings before landing on her host mech, optics a blazing scarlet. “He’s _playing_ you. Can’t you see that? You think he cares about you, any of you? Of course he doesn’t! He decided a long time ago that he was doing this by himself and this is all just a ruse for him to get you all to get him out of the estate without him having to lift a slagging finger.” She shook her helm and shifted her paws, ears plastering to her helm.

Immediately, Frenzy’s offensive demeanor shifted to one of hurt and his arms dropped to hang at his sides. “Rav...”

He tried to take a step forward but she hissed. However, all of her attention, all her fury, was being aimed primarily at Soundwave, who’d turned into a silent statue ever since Ravage had started talking. “And you’re the worst of them all,” the feline said firmly. “I accepted you as my host mech because I believed in you; in your vision, your potential, your capacity to bring about the change you said you wanted to bring about. But now I see that who you were back then...no longer exists.”

Something akin to pain flashed through the bond connecting them all through Ravage’s side, prompting Frenzy and Rumble to subconsciously place their hands over their chests.

Tail drooping, Ravage took a few steps back. “You’re going to get all of us killed, Soundwave.”

Soundwave’s engine rumbled threateningly in response to something shared between their quantum bond. “Ravage, desist.”

The feline tilted her helm up resolutely. “Or what?”

Every single symbiont in the room tensed, ventilations catching as they saw the situation for what it truly was. Soundwave had never been a traditional host mech, allowing his symbionts a certain degree of freedom and independence that enabled them all to grow as their own individual personalities.

But the relationship between host mechs and symbionts was, primarily, a partnership. There were boundaries that both had to adhere to and limitations that could not be crossed for the sake of balance.

The host mech was always the primary force of authority in the relationship. Symbionts could offer contradicting opinions, even outright refute some ideas without repercussion, but an obvious lack of respect for that authority was grounds for reprimand.

Ravage had always gotten away with more than her siblings, despite being the newest addition to the unit but only because her age had Soundwave referring to her during times of turmoil. But even she had her limits.

Soundwave took a step forward, and everyone in the room shied away as they felt the myriad of emotions rippling through his EM field.

“Ravage, will desist.” Soundwave said sternly, each word as slow and measured as each of his steps. “ _Now_.”

Ravage had enough sense to look wary but she didn’t cow. “No,” she gritted out, bunching her haunches. “I care enough about them,” and she took a moment to gesture at the other symbionts, “to tell you that you need to stop letting your emotions get in the way of your decisions. For all our sakes. Remember how you dedicated yourself to Megatron...and how he ended up betraying everything you believed in. Don’t fall into the same trap again.”

Before Soundwave could even answer, she turned around and slipped out of the open window she and the other symbionts had come in through and an eerie silence gripped the room in her absence.

Rumble and Frenzy made a move to follow after her but Soundwave put out a hand and stopped them.

“But Boss...” Rumble pleaded.

“You can’t just let her leave,” Frenzy finished.

But Soundwave didn’t offer them anything in the way of an explanation. Taking the cue for what it was, they retreated and took up their respective corners of the room, silent and uneasy.

Soundwave took a seat at the edge of the berth, back to them all and held tightly in his hands. He didn’t react when Jazz finally stepped out of the washracks a few kliks later and the saboteur’s measured movements and stony silence were clear indications that he’d heard everything that had transpired. But he said nothing, only casting an unreadable glance at Soundwave’s back before rearranging the pillows on the berth and settling into it with a soft grunt.

The telepath waited until Jazz’s breathing smoothed out, indicating that he was deep in recharge before he rose from his position and made his way out the door. Rumble and Frenzy took his place silently, exchanging a worried look before tentatively settling on the berth.

The night cycle was full of silence and restless recharge and during its duration, Lazerbeak and Buzzsaw kept watch over the door and window, waiting for their sibling and host mech to return.

But as the night cycle passed and the planet sun rose in the sky, the door remained closed and the window absent of the familiar ebony plating of the missing feline.

 

~~~

 

Jazz woke to the sound of his internal chronometer going off, the steady beeping seeping into his memory influx and gently lulling him into consciousness. When his visor finally flickered online, he was met with the sight of a bowl of green Energon gummies, sweet-smelling and steaming slightly in a way that indicated they were freshly made.

They were being held up by Frenzy, who was leaning forward with a curious glimmer in his visor. Upon noticing Jazz’s wakefulness, he leaned back a bit and smiled, albeit a bit half-heartedly.

“Breakfast.” He said, smile widening at the Earth euphemism.

Jazz sat up with a soft groan, wincing as the usual aches and pains invaded his frame. As he worked out the kinks in one of his shoulders, he took a moment to glance around and he frowned upon noticing that they were sans a particular telepath.

“Where’s Soundwave?” He asked as he sat up, reached for the bowl and settled it comfortably in his lap.

Frenzy’s smile fell, replaced by the pursing of his lips. “Out,” he said curtly.

“Oh,” Jazz frowned.

“Why?” The symbiont’s question was heavy with accusation though he did a decent job at trying to hide it. “Your appointment’s today, isn’t it? You told Soundwave you wanted to do this on your own. So, he’s giving you space.”

Jazz’s visor flickered warningly. “I heard what happened, Frenzy. I’m not stupid.”

Frenzy immediately looked crestfallen but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he told Jazz to enjoy his meal and scampered off to lay with Rumble, who was still recharging at the foot of the berth. “Be ready to leave in a joor,” the symbiont said, voice muffled by soft covers. “Me and Rumble are gonna take you.”

“Yeah, sure.” Jazz finished off a couple more gummies before standing up and walking over to the monitor screen. He turned it on and quickly lowered the volume, making it low enough so that he could hear without disturbing anyone else. It was on the soap opera channel they’d left it at the previous orn but a few quick clicks of the buttons on the remote allowed Jazz to reach the news outlet he’d tried watching.

To his surprise, there was no breaking news bulletin like he’d anticipated. An economist was arguing with another about whether or not the Prime’s rule had truly brought about a successful revival of the monetary sector of their newfound society, his passion for the topic spurring him on far more than actual facts.

Jazz watched for a few moments, curious to see what he could hear but after a nanoklik, he hastily switched the channel and found another outlet. It was a brand-new section, the anchor introducing themselves and their designated list of topics for the orn.

This one did have the incident on the bucket list, labeled as “Iacon Incident” and was the second to last thing on the list. Jazz powered through the other topics with sparse patience, muttering under his breath when a mech popped up with tabloids headlines about suspected fraud being committed by the Prime and how New Vosian was the only one benefiting as a result.

When they finally got to what Jazz was waiting for, he’d taken to shifting his weight to his other foot, one hand rubbing at his back with a grimace on his face.

_“—In other news, Enforcers spent the night cycle combing over the central Iacon district with irrefutable scrutiny and have come to the conclusion that the event that claimed the lives of three civlians was, in fact, nothing more than a tragic accident. We have Razer on the scene with more information._ ” The screen switched to another mech, red with black highlights, who had a hand pressed to one audial and a microphone in the other.

He nodded once. “ _Thank you, Pipe. As you can see behind me, I’m here at the youth hostel in the district which is the place Enforcers have stated to be where the accident originally originated. Most outlets have speculated a bomb but fortunately, it was nothing more than a ruptured fuel line in the establishment’s Energon storage. A stray spark lit up the fuel and the Energon in the room catapulted the damage to affect other buildings, hence the broken windows and damaged structures. Already the area has been tapered off and city planners are on the case to investigate if this was a freak accident or an indication of something much more worrisome in the city’s infrastructure. For now, it’s all speculation but we will keep you posted.”_ He offered the camera a grim look. _“Back to you, Pipe._

Jazz shook his helm. “Unbelievable.” They’d really done it. Jazz knew with deep certainty that the explosion hadn’t been the result of some faulty fuel line. He’d seen enough bombs go off to know that the radius had been too wide and the damage too far reaching; not to mention the acrid taste that he’d tasted in the air...the smell he’d tried forgetting since Uraya because of the...leass than pleasant memories it evoked.

He grimaced. Something was wrong here, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. But just like Uraya he was as in the dark as everyone could ever hope to be.

It put him on edge.

Maybe coming to Iacon hadn’t been—no. He shook his helm, clearing that thought from his helm before it had the chance to take root. There was no way he’d ever regret leaving the estate; the orn he did was the orn he’d put a bullet through his own optic.

He hastily turned off the vidscreen and checked his chronometer. There was barely enough time for him to have a quick wash and polish so he left the worrisome news to his subconscious and proceeded to make preparations. Soundwave didn’t appear throughout Jazz’s whole process of getting ready and by the time Rumble and Frenzy escorted him out of the building and into the street, Jazz knew that the telepath really wasn’t going to make an appearance.

An odd sensation of vulnerability tickled the back of Jazz’s neck as he made his way to the designated location, one he tried very hard to ignore. He knew what it was; Soundwave’s recent attachment to him had made Jazz far too dependent on his presence and he’d lost some of that paranoia that had him feeling better on his own when he trusted no one and constantly looked over his shoulder.

A part of him mourned the absence of the telepath but Jazz knew better than to listen. Now, was simply not the time.

The institute Jespa had sent him to was familiar; it was one of the direct competitors of Ratchet’s services, the one that housed a vast majority of former war medics and doctors who hadn’t been able to find work or build their own businesses.

Jazz faltered on the steps leading up to the grand spiraling crystal building as the thought crossed his mind. What if he got someone who knew him? Some crazy ‘Con who’d tortured him or a Bot medic that helped heal him and knew all about his Spark type and frame schematics?

Rumble and Frenzy noticed his hesitation and paused a few steps up, glancing back at him with mirror synchronicity. “Something wrong?”

The saboteur felt like his mouth had gone dry and he struggled to soothe the tremor in his voice. “Just nervous,” he said, though even he knew the answer was meek at best.

The symbionts let out little sighs and hoped down towards him, halting on a step that put that at Jazz’s optic level. “Look,” Frenzy said, “we know you’re scared. But it’s gonna be fine. Soundwave made sure that none of the findings the docs make are gonna link to your actual file so don’t worry.”

“Yeah,” Rumble stated, nodding. “We did some research and the procedure’s safe. The docs all got certification and the mech Jespa was talking about is as good as they come.”’

Jazz let out a dry chuckle, amused by their efforts. “If I tell you I wanna turn around and run off to Ratchet’s, what would you say?”

The symbionts groaned. “Please, don’t.” Frenzy muttered, “we’re not in the mood to lose another bot we care about.”

The words made Jazz freeze for a moment when he realized that neither of the symbionts made an effort to catch their slip of the word or justify what they’d said. Jazz hated how it made his insides warm and a soft genuine smile spread across his lips because he knew he had absolutely no right to feel what he was feeling. But then again, he was a trained professional so he let the smile stay on his face all the way into the receptionist lobby, where a happy looking mech offered him welcome and asked for his information.

“Meister,” the saboteur said softly. “I have an appointment.”

Orange optics squinted at the tiny computer monitor before widening up a bit in recognition. “Meister of Uraya?”

Jazz swallowed the lump in his throat. “Yes,” he gritted out. “That’s the one.”

“Is your mate by any chance here? The payment tab’s on his name and he only put in the deposit when he made the appointment but after your consultation and treatment, we will need to either receive payment in full or discuss a viable course of repayment.”

The saboteur hated how the mention of credits made his struts freeze up but he knew that his reaction was completely justified. It served as a reminder that the world he was currently living in wasn’t one he could fit into just because of his reputation. Working societies had its denziens working to procure funds to survive, so that they could have access to the essentials needed to survive.

Jazz was going to need to plan what he was planning to do once the bitlet was born. Because he wasn’t exactly rolling around in credits and he was sure all his belongings and inheritance had been liquidated right after his supposed death.

But he had to be careful. Dancing was the one thing that popped into his mind; he’d been a dancer for a short while in Polyhex, accepting personal stints on the side, and while it’d garnered decent funds, it wasn’t something he wanted to expose his bitlet to.

There was ultimately a lot of planning Jazz had to sort through but he gave his helm a shake and focused on the current situation. “He isn’t here, unfortunately,” Jazz said. “But I’d be happy to discuss everything after my consultation?”

“If you’re sure,” the mech said slowly. “Whatever works for you.” With that, he was asked to sit in one of the chairs in the waiting area and Jazz took his seat and drummed his fingers on the armrests as a way to distract himself.

He didn’t have time to feel bored, however. Because a tall and thin mech sauntered into the lobby with a datapad in hand, all white panels and glowing scarlet optics. “Meister?” His voice was deep and gruff.

Jazz rose to his feet and introduced himself, following the mech when he gestured for Jazz to accompany him. They made their way through winding hallways that gleamed under the light and passed rooms that smelled strongly of antiseptic, a testament to just how rigorous cleaning standards were around the place.

“I take it Jespa’s still alive and kicking?” The mech didn’t turn around to look at Jazz as he asked the question.

“Yes,” Jazz said, nodding.

The mech huffed. “And I said miracles didn’t exist.” He paused outside of a small office and scanned his hand on the matrixpad, stepping inside and holding the door for Jazz. “Take a seat on the cot, please.”

The room was rather large, given the tiny doorway they’d come through. It housed a desk and two chairs at the forefront and then a couple cots with carious equipment lingering around it the further one looked into the room. The opposite wall was cabinets full of tools and chemicals, and several were labeled with warning signs that made Jazz fell a little uneasy. But he took his designated seat nonetheless, thankful for the tiny step on the side that aided him in the process.

Sitting on a wheeled stool, the mech rolled his way in front of Jazz and offered a curt nod. “I don’t think Jespa’s offered you my designation so I’ll start this off with a few pleasantries, all right? My name’s Axiom. I’m specialized in matters of the frame and the Spark, and more recently, carrying in Cybertronians. It’s still a blossoming field but we’ve garnered enough research and procedures here to make sure that any carrier is offered the best care to ensure they and their creation make it through."

He glanced at his datapad. “I’ve been told you were assigned to me because you were found to be lacking the adequate codes and frame structure to go into emergence, correct?"

Jazz appreciated the dive into business. “Yes.”

“How long have you been carrying?”

“Around 11 quartexes.”

“Do you have an exact date?”

Jazz shook his helm. “It came as a bit of a surprise to me.”

Axiom nodded, “I see. He wrote something down on his notepad. “How about an explanation for the frame redesign?”

Jazz hesitated. “Well...” he wrung his hands and shrugged his shoulders. “I got hurt a while back and ended up needing the frame reconstruction to save my life. I didn’t have the credits to pay someone to do a complete frame overhaul and I didn’t have any schematics of my original frame to offer so the mech I saw did what he could.”

“Well, given Jespa’s notes, I can say that the mech who did the procedure did a decent job. Structurally, of course. Aesthetically, the situation’s understandable but that’s beside the point.” He tapped the stylus he had in his hand against the hard edge of the datapad, optics narrowing as he analyzed and compartmentalized the data.

Finally, he glanced up and said, “I can do one of two things. One, I install the codes and only reconstruct the portion of your frame that will actually be responsible for the emergence process and update your balancing gyros to befit the redesign. It’s not aesthetically pleasing and chances are it will have some effect on your emotional centers but it is the most cost-effective option. It has the shortest recuperation period and you can go back to your life in about 8.5 orns after the procedure. Your bitlet will emerge and then you can look into fixing your frame whenever you so desire.”

He raised two fingers. “Option two is the most expensive one. In this one, I offer you a full frame redesign. We’ll pair you up with one of my frame architects and they’ll draft up a working blueprint that will then be transferred to me so I can do the procedure. I’ll add in everything, from the emergence protocols to strengthened struts and immune controls to make sure the neither you nor your creation is at risk for any structural or bio damage.” He paused, “it will be the one requiring an extensive amount of recuperation, however. Depending on how adaptable your Spark is, you might even be required to undergo physical therapy to rebalance it with your new frame so there’s something else to bring into the equation.”

Axiom shrugged, “Either option makes sure your bitlet emerges good and healthy but the second option is slightly more complex and encompassing. But it’s all dependent on you. Do you have the funds and do you have the time?”

Jazz listened intently to everything with wide optics, surprise at just how complex the whole procedure was. Even the first option had his helm spinning and he desperately wished he’d done some research before arriving. He knew there were some questions he should ask, some things he should demand Axiom should reassure him of but all that he could muster up in response was a stiff little nod of his helm.

“We offer informational pamphlets if you’re in need of a more visual explanation,” Axiom offered, voice softening but only a bit.

Jazz shook his helm. “No. I...I understand my options.”

“Good. Now, you don’t have to make your decision right away. It’s a big decision and I’m sure you’ll need plenty of time to discuss the details with your mate and that’s--.”

“He’s not my mate,” Jazz said, catching Axiom by surprise.

The mech was quick to catch on and he offered a curt nod in response. “Apologies. But whatever he is, he’s the one offering payment so I recommend going over everything with him to make sure the both of you are on the same page.” Axiom rose to his feet. “I’ll draft up an outline of both procedures and the monetary costs for both so you both know what you’re getting into. I’ll schedule another appointment a couple orns from now so that you can let me know what you chose and hopefully we can get started on the procedure you’ve decided upon.”

“Thank you,” Jazz said and Axion’s mouth lifted up in one corner in a small smile. With that, he rolled back to the desk near the entrance and began to type in the information into the terminal.

In less than a joor, Jazz was being herded back to the lobby with a datapad in hand, gait a little uneasy as he met up with Rumble and Frenzy who were all but vibrating with relief at seeing him.

“How’d it go?” Rumble asked, circling Jazz. “Did he do it? Are you able to go into emergence now?”

Jazz shook his helm as he made his way to the receptionist’s desk. “No, Rumble, not yet.” He quickly asked the mech behind the desk to charge whatever account Soundwave had linked and upon being waved off, exited the building with two symbionts on his heels.

“Why didn’t you get the procedure?” Frenzy asked suspiciously, hopping down the steps to keep up with the saboteur’s pace.

“Because it costs a lot of credits,” Jazz explained.

“Soundwave will pay for all of it,” the red and black cassette argued. “He already told you he would.”

The saboteur came to a stop in the middle of the walkway, helm whipping around to glare at the symbiont. “Soundwave wasn’t here to tell me so how the slag was I supposed to know?”

His tone made Frenzy grimace and the three of them lasped into an uneasy silence as they made their way back to the hotel. It was only when they arrived to their door of their room that Frenzy actually talked.

“Soundwave’s back.” He said, turning up to look at the saboteur.

Jazz hesitated, but only for a moment. “Fine.” He scanned the key card against the matrixpad and the door opened, revealing the familiar navy-blue frame of the telepath as he stood in front of a turned on vidscreen.

Soundwave turned to look at them, red visor burning it’s usual scarlet hue. Jazz noticed that it brightened a little when it landed on him and he hated how he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel.

Was he supposed to feel happy? Relieved, surprised? The uncertainty made his Spark hurt more than it should.

Rumble and Frenzy bounded up to their host mech, who kneeled down and extended a hand that both symbionts latched onto.

“Did you find Rav?”

“Is she okay?"

Soundwave shook his helm. “Ravage, does not wish to return. However, Ravage, is safe.”

The words made both cassettes’ shoulders droop in relief, though their visors brimmed with sadness. “She won’t let us talk to her,” Rumble said. “she shut off her end of the bond.”

“Ravage, needs time.” Soundwave said softly, his other hand reaching out to cup Rumble’s back. “She, will come around.”

“I hope so,” Frenzy said, though he didn’t sound too hopeful.

Jazz hated how his insides twisted with guilt at those words and even more so at the sound of the symbiont’s utterly dejected tone. Why now, he thought. He didn’t care about them so why was he feeling so guilty about the fact that there was some huge divide between the only bots the war hadn’t been able to tear apart?

_Because you’re the reason Ravage left._

The tiny voice in his mind was back, ruthless as ever, and Jazz found that the little room was suddenly too crowded. He felt like he was suffocating, like he couldn’t breathe and he wanted to be anywhere but there.

Subspacing the datapad in his hand, he stepped back and opened the door, stepping outside with a speed that probably rivaled his current size and agility. But he hadn’t made it a few steps before a hand gripped his arm, pulling hard to halt him but not so much as to injure him.

Jazz glanced over his shoulder, lips twisted into a scowl. “Let go of me.”

“Negative,” Soundwave intoned. “Jazz, cannot leave the room.”

The saboteur growled, trying, in vain, to pull his arm out of the host mech’s grip. “I’m not in the mood to fight, Soundwave.”

“Soundwave, is not fighting."

Jazz’s patience snapped. “Fragging Pit!” He whirled around to face Soundwave, visor livid as the floodgates opened and everything the saboteur had been holding in spilled out. “Just let me go, already!”

The saboteur aimed a punch at Soundwave’s offending grip but the telepath brushed it off with his other hand with surprising ease. Jazz hated how helpless he felt seeing Soundwave evade his punches without so much as a hint of effort when eons ago he alone had been the only one who’d been able to bring the telepath to his knees in a fight. But now he was weak and hapless and not even his wits were enough to allow him to pull ahead in this precarious battle.

If he couldn’t protect himself, how on Cybertron was he supposed to take care of another bot? One who would be entirely dependent on him to nurture and care and protect?

A burning feeling erupted around his Spark and the bitlet squirmed as the negative emotions spilled through the bond and made it uneasy. It sent inquisitive little pings to him but Jazz didn’t have the Spark to reply.

“You let Ravage walk away without a fight,” Jazz said lowly, refusing to meet the telepath’s gaze. “Your own symbiont.”

Soundwave’s grip faltered just enough to let Jazz pull his arm free.

“Ravage, free to make own choices.”

Jazz grimaced, one hand rubbing the spot Soundwave had been holding as if it burned. “She was right, y’know. About me, that is.” He hesitated for a moment, then let out a defeated sigh. “I was only using you. I know your loyalty coding like the back of my hand and so I manipulated you into caring. And you fell into my trap without so much as a backwards glance."

He chuckled but it lacked any humor. “You got me out of the estate and now I’m in Iacon, just a shuttle ride away from the Assembly...a joor’s journey from Prowl’s compartment and with clean unrestricted access to the DataNet.” Slowly, he glanced up and stared at Soundwave with a triumphant smirk. “I won...and you lost."

Soundwave stared at him silently, EM field calm and quiet and with his hands hanging limply at his side. There wasn’t any sign of surprise or disbelief in his posture, no indication that Jazz’s words had affected in any way.

Jazz wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. Maybe a gasp, a dramatic “how could you?” perhaps. Anger? He could’ve dealt with anger. It would have made everything so much easier if Soundwave hated him because hate was something Jazz was so used to dealing with.

But the calm silence?

No, Jazz didn’t like it. Not one bit.

He took a small step back. “Go back to Uraya, Soundwave. Go back to whatever it is you want because I’m not going back. I’m going to stay here and you’re gonna go and I’m--.”

“Jazz, lying.” The monotone voice cut through Jazz’s ramblings like a bullet, making the saboteur flinch and lapse into silence.

But he quickly found his voice. “I’m not.”

Soundwave repeated the phrase a little more firmly and took a measured step towards Jazz.

Jazz took another step back, EM field flaring angrily. “Don’t you dare get anywhere near me.”

The telepath halted, tilting his helm to one side. “Jazz, not afraid.”

“Damn right, I’m not,” Jazz hissed. “I stopped being afraid of you a long time ago. You thought you could intimidate me into submitting but you wanna know something? Reverb’s done worse. Argyrus has done worse. Every single client I ever had in the gutters of slagging Polyhex has done worse.” He felt something wet trickle down his cheeks and he hastily wiped it away, voice never faltering. “Nothing you do to me could ever make me afraid, Soundwave. Because honestly, what else is there for you to break?”

Quick as a flash, Soundwave crossed the space between them and Jazz didn’t even have time to gasp before the red visor was inches away from his and a large hand lay itself over his belly.

Jazz froze, optics going wide behind his visor as he felt the hand curl a little, not enough to dig into the alloy but just strong enough to let the saboteur know of the possibilities. To any other onlooker, the touch would’ve looked like nothing more than the gentle caress of an expecting sire but Jazz knew it was anything but that.

The scarlet visor flashed dangerously.

The saboteur’s voice shook. “You wouldn’t.”

“Jazz, scared?”

Jazz didn’t dare dignify that question with an answer.

“Jazz, no longer has anything to break.” Soundwave parroted, the cold and callous tone dredging up so many memories from the war that had Jazz’s battle systems flickering online. He could feel the bitlet jostling around, curious about the weight being pressed against it. With the bond blocked, it couldn’t detect Jazz’s emotions all that well so it didn’t react negatively to the pressure.

Instead, it seemed overjoyed. Exultant because it recognized that EM field, that soft touch it’d only been able to glean sporadically over the course of its brief existence.

Jazz swallowed roughly. “You wouldn’t,” he said and it wasn’t a question.

Soundwave said nothing for a moment but as time passed, his posture deflated and he dropped his hand, stepping back. Jazz lost all feeling in his knees and as soon as Soundwave stepped out of his comfort zone, he felt his knee joints give out and he fell to the floor.

Strong white arms caught him, gentle and supporting and Jazz leaned into them, shoulders shaking and feeling so inexplicably safe despite his mind reminding him of what had just transpired.

Jazz wasn’t one to cry, he felt it was a terrible waste of coolant and an even more horrible ruiner of his complexion. But he couldn’t stifle the deluge as the trickled out from underneath his visor, staining his cheeks and smearing across Soundwave’s neck cables as Jazz pressed his face against them. His fingers sought out Soundwave’s seams, slipping inside and holding on as if afraid that he’d disappear.

The telepath’s hands rested on the back of his helm and his back, fingers caressing in an attempt to soothe.

“Jazz, will no longer break.” Soundwave murmured, voice modulator momentarily abandoned. His natural harmonics were soft and warm, and Jazz wondered why he’d never offered him the opportunity to hear them before.

But it didn’t matter. At least, not anymore.

It occurred to Jazz that they probably looked stupid, wrapped up in each other’s arms on the floor like some freshly reunited pair of long-lost lovers and any mech who came out of the adjacent rooms and frowned had every right to do so.

He couldn’t bring himself to care. Because in that moment, he felt so inexplicably light, as if he’d finally expelled a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding in. But that was illogical. Because Cybertronians didn’t breathe.

The stray thought made him want to smile but he was too tired to do anything but huff softly.

“This doesn’t prove anything,” Jazz murmured.

Soundwave’s helm gave the slightest of shakes, more out of bemusement than disagreement. “Jazz, still lying.”

It was the saboteur’s turn to shake his helm. “What is you want me to say, Soundwave?”

“The truth.”

Jazz tilted his helm back slightly, just enough so that he could stare at Soundwave’s face. “And what is the truth?”

The hand behind Jazz’s helm reached back to mold itself over Jazz’s cheek, palm soft while a blue thumb brushed away the streaks of coolant tainting the soft derma. “Jazz, deserves better than what he has.”

Something in that wistful tone caught Jazz’s attention and he tilted his helm slightly in inquiry. “Soundwave, does not deserve Jazz’s forgiveness. Soundwave, is unworthy of Jazz’s affection.”

“We’re all guilty of having things we don’t deserve,” Jazz retorted sympathetically. Soundwave glanced away at the words but Jazz reached out and placed a hand on one of the telepath’s side vents, gently urging him to look and reconnect their gazes. “Myself, included.”

Soundwave’s visor warmed, turning an arcane hue that reminded Jazz of their previous little stint in Uraya, when the telepath had let down all his walls and let Jazz see, even for just a moment, who he truly was. It did funny things to his insides but in a slightly different way; less erogenous, more loving.

“Jazz, deserves to be happy,” Soundwave said and through the red glass of the visor, Jazz saw those wide golden optics bore into him with an intensity that was so inexplicably Soundwave. There was love and adoration brimming in those depths, but also something that Jazz couldn’t quite discern. The closest thing he could correlate it with was grief.

It made a lump rise in the saboteur’s throat and he leaned forwards to press their foreheads together. “You make me happy,” Jazz breathed and he expected the admission to weigh heavily on his Spark. But all it did was make the warmth in his frame expand until he felt like he was floating. “Of course, you’re a pain in the aft and sometimes I want to throttle you because you make absolutely fragged up decisions and you’re a _horrible_ judge of character but that’s normal from what I hear.” He paused, a smile spreading across his lips. “We’re not exactly following the normal path set out for courting couples, y’know? We sorta started backwards and are working our way forwards.”

The telepath let out a small chuckle, leaning into the contact with a little more fervor than before. But in typical Soundwave fashion, he broke the subtle peace and said, “Soundwave, must return to estate.”

Jazz stiffened but didn’t pull back. He did however, let his smile falter. “You know I can’t go back, Sounders.”

Soundwave nodded, “Jazz will not have to. Jazz, can remain here in Iacon.” Before Jazz could get his hopes up, the telepath added, “Or Crystal City. Soundwave, has property there.”

That made the saboteur frown. “You want to, what? Lock me away? Keep me from warning Optimus that Reverb and Argyrus are leading a coup that has the potential to plunge the world into civil war?” He pulled his helm back in genuine shock.

Soundwave shook his helm but his hold loosened enough so that Jazz wouldn’t feel trapped. “Negative. Soundwave, will keep the peace. Reverb, trusts Soundwave. Optimus, trusts Soundwave. Middle ground exists, middle ground can be obtained.” He paused, then added, “war, can be averted.”

Jazz listened to the words, the shock and disbelief fading into a look of genuine pain. “Oh, Sounders.” He breathed, shaking his helm. “That’s impossible and you know it.”

“Soundwave, capable.”

“Can you promise me you can end this? Without causalities. Without conflict? Can you absolutely guarantee that you won’t get yourself needlessly killed trying to make that psychopathic family of yours see reason?”

The telepath’s EM field burned with resolution, a determined edge lining his posture and frame. He wanted to say yes, to reassure the saboteur that he could bring about a vision of peace, a world without war in which their creation could emerge safely and soundly. But when the time came to say all that he was feeling, the telepath found himself at a loss for words.

Jazz couldn’t find it in himself to feel triumphant, however. Bumping his forehead against Soundwave’s he rose to his feet, giving Soundwave’s arms a few meager pulls until the telepath followed suit. He held onto those warm blue hands in his own with as much force as he could muster, expanding his EM field to mesh with Soundwave’s so he could feel everything he was feeling.

“Let’s just have the next few orns, okay? I got some stuff we need to talk about so let’s table this discussion for another orn.” The saboteur smiled weakly and guided Soundwave back towards their room. “Come on.”

Soundwave couldn’t find it in himself to disobey.

 

~~~

 

The door to the room clicked shut behind Soundwave and across the hall, the door situated at the end followed suit and allowed the scarlet opticed observer the privacy she needed to emit an amused chuckle.

The tiny square device in her hand beeped and she raised it to her audial, smirking. “You hear that, boss?”

“Yes, I did.” Reverb’s voice was calm and cool through the receiver. “Interesting turn of events. Good work, Flareup.”

The shape-shifter flopped onto the unmade berth with a lazy sigh, turning onto her back and propping her feet up against the wall. “You alright, boss? You don’t sound so hot.”

Silence and then Reverb replied. “I hoped to avoid the need for such drastic surveillance measures but Soundwave has proven to be...difficult to manage. I’d assumed it was because he was still clinging onto his shared history with the ‘Prime’ and ‘Lord High Protector’ but I now see that I have grossly miscalculated.” He sighed, low and heavy. “This...complicates things.”

Flareup crossed her legs at the knees, smiling. “What are you planning?”

“Apart from a revolution seeking to topple an illegitimate regime?” Reverb chuckled dryly at his own joke, “A few unsavory things, I’m afraid.”

The femme’s red optics brightened in anticipation. “Oooh, do tell~!”

“I’m afraid that the next phase of this particular operation will be going to someone else,” Reverb said, sounding anything but apologetic. “Your skills are needed elsewhere.”

“Spoilsport.” Flareup huffed, crestfallen.

Reverb didn’t respond to her quip. “I want you to vacate the room by the end of the orn. Be sure not to leave any evidence behind that might possibly tie to us, if you don’t mind, my dear.”

Flareup rolled off the berth and rising to her feet on the floor. “Will do. See you in a bit.” She cut the line off and subspaced the little device, glancing around the room and letting out a groan when she saw the greying frame propped up grotesquely on the little recliner in the corner. The mech had been a mild-mannered businessman visiting Iacon in the hopes of landing a job opportunity in a local firm but he’d had his interview cancelled an orn before it was set to occur.

She’d met him in a local bar and convinced him to take her back to his room. He’d expected interfacing but the poor sod had only gotten the after effects of the slow acting poison attacking his nueral net before he’d even had a chance to finish closing the door.

He’d made good company, though the smell had been getting increasingly difficult to mask. Thank Primus it was time to move on.

Opening up a commline, she waited a moment before it beeped and a familiar voice asked, “Makeshift, here.”

“You got a klik?” She asked, feigning boredom.

Makeshift sighed, already guessing what she was about to ask. “Need I remind you of the meaning of discretion, Flareup?”

“It’s only a frame this time, Makeshift. No fluids.”

A moment of silence and then Makeshift replied, “This is the last time I’m ever helping you.”

And then the line went dead.

Flareup rolled her optics in exasperation. “Revolutionaries,” she groused and got to work.


	28. On The Theory Of Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting close to the homestretch now, folks.

_“I stand out here alone_  
_Am I asking for too much?_  
_So far from being free_  
_A past that's haunting me_  
_A future I just can't touch_

 _And if you take my hand_  
_Please pull me from the dark_  
_And show me hope_  
_Again..._

\--"So Far", Ólafur Arnalds

 

 

Optimus let out a heavy sigh that reverberated off the walls of his office, optics shuttering for a brief moment as he pinched the bridge of his nose that peeked over the top of his facemask. The sharp little pain relieved some of the growing tension in his helm but only slightly; in less than a klik, the pain returned and it seemed to be back with a vengeance.

Megatron told him it was a side effect of being poisoned and then stuffed into a CR chamber for orns, reminding him that he would be wise to dedicate a few more decaorns to his own rest and recuperation. But the Prime rarely listened to his bondmate’s spiels. At least, when it came to that particular subject.

The former gladiator had not taken well to the news of Optimus’ near-death experience and it had taken the combined might of Chromia, Ironhide and a few Assembly guards to prevent Megatron from taking off to investigate who had issued the strike on the Prime not a moment after his return from his own errand. In the end, he’d been convinced that keeping watch over Optimus was the best thing he could do at the moment and he’d taken the job upon him with great zeal.

It was to him that Optimus had onlined his optics to and while that sentiment in and of itself was endearing, the moment had been broken by Megatron’s incessant demands for information and urging that he take it easy. He had rested, more than enough, and though he knew it wouldn’t hurt to abide to Megatron’s wishes, Optimus knew that there was much more at stake than a few painful little helm aches.

The gala was going to take place at the end of the coming orn and with Prowl out on carrier leave, it fell to Optimus to organize not only the social proceedings but also the security detail with his lieutenant. Riot was a good Enforcer but he proved to be more stubborn and regulation-driven than Prowl so convincing him to drop certain security particulars without revealing the Uraya mission had proven to be immensely difficult.

He questioned everything with narrowed optics and though he was good-natured in his mannerisms, there was an air of skepticism that hung around him and Optimus had called upon small tidbits of SpecOps training Jazz had offered him in the past to make it through their conversations without giving anything away. In the end, Riot had acquiesced to the laxer security only when Optimus promised to allow a security detail to shadow him for the duration of the event.

Megatron had stepped up to that role already but another one of Riot’s officers would linger in the shadows; Optimus pitied whatever mech even dared try something with such measures in place.

Though they might be inclined to pity him more. He was joors away from being forced to interact with politicians and influencers and he still hadn’t made it to his detailing appointment yet. His detailer had been sending him angry messages for over a joor, each one more colorful than the last and in the end, Optimus had cancelled and sent and decided to handle his own detailing.

It’d proven to be more difficult than he anticipated; his large fingers were remarkably steady when wielding an Energon axe and pulling the triggers of blasters ten times his arm’s size but when it came to painting steady lines of red and blue, they failed horrible. In the end, he did what he could and decided on wearing that ridiculous cape that all officials were given upon their election into office. It was purple and heavy and awful but it eliminated the necessity for aesthetics. 

With that taken care of, he pushed himself back in his chair, tilted his face up towards the cieling and let out a heavy sigh. A bit of the strain and pressure on his shoulders lifted and he swore that was enough to perhaps make him fall into a brief recharge but he pushed the line of code to the back of his processor and pulled up another datapad.

It was the guest list. Shorter than he would’ve liked but he really wasn’t getting too caught up in schematics; the only names he cared about were the ones listed under the title of representative for Uraya.

Argyrus and his bondmate Rethelia. A few couriers were listed with them but other than that, they made up the shortest ensemble of in the overall pool of invited guests. Optimus hadn’t seen Jazz’s undercover name on the roster and he’d yet to receive any kind of report from Soundwave and that was turning out to be his primary source of stress.

Prowl had organized the gala as a way for Jazz to make it back into Iacon. But of course, when he’d done so he hadn’t anticipated the probability that Jazz would be carrying. (Not that anybody had, really; Optimus himself was still having trouble accepting that tidbit of reality.) No mech in their right mind would ever bring a carrier to such an event and it seemed that the plan came with no promise of success.

All of the socializing and the planning and the social politics...would end up being for nothing.

“Slag.” Optimus gave his helm a shake, trying to dispel the negative thoughts. Now wasn’t the time for his usual pessimism to rear its ugly head.

Regardless of Jazz’s appearance or not, Soundwave had assured Optimus that he would make sure his former TIC would make it back safely; the Prime trusted the late communications officer would come through on his word. And Optimus was socially savvy enough to at least wring out a few tidbits of useful information from Argyrus; thanks, in part, to a lovely little truth serum known as High Grade. Optimus made sure to triple the amount that would be available...just in case, of course.

And that was that.

He checked his internal chronometer; he had a few joors before the event. Maybe he could use that time to dig out that idiotic cape he would be wearing and see if he could iron out the wrinkles that he knew it would be sporting. Maybe even practice walking in it so he won’t end up tripping over the ridiculously long thing and make a fool of himself.

Yes, that sounded like something he could do.

Thoughts of the mission and stakes never truly left his mind but the Prime had learned how to compartmentalize, pushing the information just back enough so that the heavy feeling of dread and anxiety would lessen in his chest and he could focus on his current situation.

A few hundred kliks away in a busy part of Iacon, Jazz and Soundwave were making their way through the throng of pedestrians and traffic, visors attentive and focused on their surroundings. Above them, Lazerbeak hovered over them, letting out the occasional trill to let the two bots below her when there were obstacles up ahead and which route had the least amount of activity and hindrance. She reassured them that she could see their destination from her position and that though it didn’t seem like it, there were, in fact, getting closer to it.

Despite the recent revelations between Jazz and Soundwave, the two of them had been remarkably civil once they’d come back into the room and had sat down and discussed the options that Axiom had presented the saboteur with the previous orn. It’d taken very little conversation before Soundwave suggested Jazz take the second, more expensive, option and offered whatever funds he had for the procedure.

Jazz had been hesitant at first but eventually caved and they’d spent the rest of that orn watching that old soap opera that seemed to be dominating all the vidscreen channels. Lazerbeak appreciated the peace in her host mech’s field, the subtle warmth he’d suddenly accepted and broadcasted made it easier to recharge in his docking chamber and get a good night cycle’s rest. There was still a smidgen of apprehension and uncertainty lingering but every time Soundwave glanced at Jazz, they’d disappear and the aerial silently preened at the tiny, almost unnoticeable exchanges.

They were still being foolish at times, acting bashful here and there despite already being expecting creators, but at least the animosity between them was gone now.

Lazerbeak could only hope that it would last.

All three of them arrived at a large market square, allocated inside of a large building that held three levels of various little shops that offered a variety of commodities and services. Lazerbeak took her place on Soundwave’s shoulder, giving his side vent a happy nudge to let him know she wanted to ride with him.

Of course, he didn’t look at her but he did send a pulse of affirmation through their bond.

Jazz’s visor was bright with attentiveness as he circled in place, taking in the scenery with an air of awe.

Soundwave was intrigued but more so by the saboteur’s reaction than the actual location.

“Location, adequate.” The telepath intoned softly and Jazz paused to give him an unamused look.

“This square opened up after I got my job,” he explained with a shrug, carefully keeping his words vague. “Heard it was due to have an amazing records shop and you bet your aft I wasn’t going to miss out on that for anything.” Catching sight of a small holographic map, Jazz sauntered over and analyzed it for a moment, lips twisting soflty to one side. Then his visor flared and he pointed to a small blip on the second level.

“Here it is! Klax’s Records.”

Soundwave stepped forth to read the map better and sighed, “Jazz, should refrain from rigorous activity.” He was no doubt referring to the number of stairs that lined the edge leading up to the upper levels on the opposite end of the establishment.

The saboteur was unfazed. “That’s why I got you, isn’t it?” Shaking his helm, he replied, “I’ll take it easy, mech. I know my limits.” He walked up beside Soundwave, easily slipped an arm around one of the blue host mech’s and did his best impression of an innocent smile. It was a smile upwards tilt of the saboteur’s mouth corners, a pale imitation of the grins and smirks Jazz was capable of procuring, but there was a warmth to it that made it difficult for Soundwave not to give in.

It was painfully mundane making their way through the crowded place; nobody really spared them a second glance from among the crowd and vendors tried to tempt them with samples and free testers, shouting deals and guaranteeing satisfaction. For a while, it was easy to sink into the vibrancy of the place and forget that they were mechs fighting for opposing sides of a brewing war; if bots looked hard enough, they’d probably surmise that they were lovers, happy and deeply enamored, Jazz’s belly an indication of just how far their relationship ran.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be too far from the truth. Soundwave’s visor was warmer than usual and the smile on Jazz’s lips only widened with each passing moment.

The second level was a bit calmer, lined with datapad stores and less visual entertainment, and few bots lingered in the halls between the stores. Eventually, they arrived at Klax’s Records and Jazz let go of Soundwave’s arms to all but dive into the tiny little establishment, hands floating in front of him as he cast a sweeping look over the line of vinyls and holographic players lining the walls.

A tall lithe mech appeared from a back room, all sharp red panels and bright orange optics, smiling as he caught sight of the silver mech and all but felt the enthusiasm he was oozing.

“Hello! Welcome to Klax’s Records, home of the finest selection of records from all the corners of the explored (and unexplored) of the galaxy. My designation’s Jax. What tunes might interest you today?”

Jazz grinned, “Got any snippets of the Haxean orchestrean choir?”

Orange optics narrowed knowingly. “Fifth or second tercibel?”

“Do you even gotta ask? Fifth, obviously.” Jazz cast a small side glance at Soundwave, who’d taken the opportunity to walk up beside the silver mech, and shrugged as if to say ‘what? I can’t help it.’ Jax led the way through the empty store to a small table that consisted of an odd stack of clear looking cubes and Soundwave immediately recognized them for what they were.

Haxeans were a species of organics that’d claimed to be capable of capturing sound and they’d recorded their music in closed arenas that siphoned off the sound into small cubes that could be played like tape recorders. They were blocky and heavy and very rarely could you find one that housed more than a couple notes and Soundwave had never really been a fan of them.

But it appeared that Jazz was, oddly.

When he saw the piles of cubes, he went for two at once, pressing them to his audial so he could get a few faint whiffs of the music sequestered inside. His lips pursed for a moment in concentration and then he put the cubes back, got two more and did the whole process over again. It lasted a few nanokliks but eventually Jazz made his selection, holding up a pair of cubes with a few select engravings on the casing.

Jazz paid for them with his own credits, the few he’d gotten from his time at the estate, and they were packed into a quaint little box that the saboteur carefully put away in his subspace. Soundwave noticed that he seemed happier after the transaction and filed the information away for future reference, content to simply observe the way Jazz’ s helm lifted up to stare ahead and the confident edge his gait had gained.

They had a true purpose for arriving at the market in the first place and Klax’s Records certainly hadn’t been it but neither of the two mechs seemed eager to go look at the holographic map to check where they were supposed to be heading next and so they wandered around aimlessly for a while, listening and observing and simply reveling in the domesticity of the whole situation.

Buying some unleaded Energon from a small shop allowed them an excuse to stop and rest on a pair of benches, and the pair drank their own imbibes in a comfortable silence, the bustling crowds more than enough to keep their attention. When they finished, they rose to their feet and dumped their cubes in a small trash dispenser.

Jazz let out a small sigh. “Well,” he said softly, shrugging. “Guess there’s no point in putting things off for any longer.” He craned his helm and glanced around, lips pursed. “See any maps around here?”

Soundwave shook his helm, “Map, not necessary. Soundwave, knows where to go.”

The saboteur’s lips twitched. “Always one step ahead of me, aren’t you?”

“Affirmative.” The words were spoken softly and Jazz shrugged good-naturedly, allowing the telepath to gently loop their arms together and guide them to their next destination.

It was a short trip to the store situated on the first level but the throngs of bots made it a little slower and by the time they arrived, Jazz found himself scrapping off an accidental paint transfer from his shoulder and Lazerbeak’s wings were flapping with impatience.

Soundwave reached over to help Jazz, sure blue fingers holding a mesh cloth he’d fetched from his subspace, and the saboteur murmured his thanks. But then that sure blue visor glanced up at the bright blue glyphs adorning the entrance of the shop and he froze, intake bobbing as he swallowed roughly.

His EM field rippled with uncertainty where it meshed with Soundwave’s, cold and unrelenting.

It wasn’t too difficult to see why. The glass windows of the establishment were littered with glyphs stating about the joys of creations, with crudely drawn bitlets plastered at least twice on every window. Their round helms were abnormally large and their bright blue optics were shining as their lips were pulled into comedically wide grins of joy.

Anything one could possibly think of to aid the raising of a youngling was listed; from triple filtered Energon purifiers to weighted mesh blankets, all of them at prices that claimed to be the cheapest in the city-state.

A jovial-looking mech could be seen loitering inside the store, animatedly speaking to a pair of femmes that looked to be just as energetic as he was. He pulled out boxes from the shelf behind him and threw it into their hands, and they grasped it and inaudibly oohed and ahhed with a fervor that Jazz thought was a little obnoxious.

But then again, the circumstances played a big role in how everyone felt. And Jazz’s hadn’t exactly been ideal.

Suddenly, the thought of stepping foot into the store made him feel uncomfortable and no matter how much he told himself to get over it and simply walk inside, his feet stayed frozen in place. A horribly empty feeling grew in his chest, twisting and turning his vitals until he felt like his vents were no longer functioning as they should.

Because it was all wrong.

Soundwave had remained still throughout the duration of his little inner conflict but when Jazz glanced up to look at him, that red visor met his gaze with calm attentiveness. Unlike the disarray that Jazz knew his was, Soundwave’s was like a beacon of serenity.

No doubt he was probably dealing with his own turmoil, but he did a slagging good job at hiding it. And Jazz found that he needed that more than anything in that moment.

Moreso than what little trinkets and equipment they would’ve been hoping to buy from that store. Jazz surmised that more than half probably would’ve ended up being useless and they probably would’ve had to return them.

Taking a moment to find his voice again, Jazz said, “It’s getting a little stuffy in here. Why don’t we head back?”

Soundwave saw right through his quip but he nodded his helm and dutifully obliged. His arm looped a little tighter around Jazz’s, firm and supporting, and he helped lead the way to the exit.

When they finally emerged, the weight on Jazz’s chest lifted a little and he inhaled and exhaled the air with a relieved smile on his lips.

But that smile fell almost as quickly as it’d appeared when he saw the scene that lay before them.

Normally, street vendors were allowed to take residence in front of large activity centers when they paid a substantial fee but few bots had the credits to actually pay for such an opportunity so the streets of Iacon were normally less congested than other cities like, say, Uraya.

On occasion, there were a few bots with the brass bearings to pay such a hefty fee and that orn, Jazz and Soundwave were made privy to a few of them.

Bold red glyphs leapt at them from the holographic signs that stood on either side of the raised platform.

 

**_THE PRIME MUST GO!_ **

****

**_FREEDOM FOR ALL CYBERTRONIANS, NOT CONFORMITY!_ **

****

A mech, draped in a patched purple cloak that was an obvious parody of the traditional Prime wear, stood at the forefront of the stage, megaphone in hand as he passionately shouted the words of his blinking slogan. A considerable amount of mechs and femmes surrounded the mech, a few stepping forward to download a hand-held copy of pamphlets two bright colored femmes were offering in front of the platform.

“My fellow Cybertronians, we have fought long and hard over the last couple of eons to ensure that the freedoms of our people would never again be trod upon as if they were common riffraff. We managed to bring that conflict to an end, but in what way? In the form of an armistice, borne out of some lucky union between two former enemies?” He swept an arm out in front of him, cape sweeping dramatically behind him. “The Prime said he was our savior, the one who would guide us through our darkest hour. He promised he would be rid of the Decepticons’ philosophy and the hypocrisy of the Autobots but what did he do? He put himself and his main enemy as figureheads of the new government. He brings to this new era the burden of war and the clouded ideologies of a failed society and our people have once again been thrown into a never-ending cycle of poverty and injustice.”

The mech hopped down onto the floor, asking for the hands of one of the femmes and bringing her forward with him. “This is Quartz,” he said, voice soft as he spoke her designation. “She used to be a dancer in the lower districts of Yuss. Talented, I can assure you, but forced into a contract of abuse and mistreatment at the hands of her patrons because of the poverty her caste struggled with. She overcame the war and returned to her home planet in an effort to help rebuild and take control of her life once more...but her efforts were put to a halt by the monopoly the scientific cities have in the Senate.

“Whereas Crystal City and New Vosian flourish under the influx of credits and funding they receive, Yuss remains a deteriorated city. A husk of its former self as it remains forgotten and abandoned simply because it doesn’t cater to the needs of the so called-progressives we call our leaders.” The anger and hate that dripped from every word made Jazz’s grip on Soundwave tighten to the point of near-pain but he couldn’t find the strength to relax.

It would have been one thing to see a raging idealist spouting his words and seeing them fall on deaf audials, but judging by the ripple of excitement in the air and the bright attentive gazes drinking in the mech’s every move...it was easy to tell that these spectators were not just listening to indulge him.

They were enthralled. Absorbed and if the nods and hearty murmurs of approval were any indicators, they agreed with everything he was saying.

Jazz wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel about that.

Movement caught his optic and he turned his attention back to the orator, watching as he let Quartz step back and gestured for the other femme to step forward.

There was an odd sense of familiarity in the way the other femme walked that caught Jazz’s attention. Her helm was bowed so he couldn’t see her face and the bright red and blue coloring was way too shoddy to be her normal color scheme. But when she took the mech’s hand and allowed herself to be guided forward, Jazz found his view shrouded by the audience members that moved to get a closer look and he stifled a growl of frustration.

He let go of Soundwave’s arm, felt the telepath try to grab onto him to stop him, and tried to see if he could get a better look. He pushed past a few bots lingering on the fringes of the crowd, standing on the tips of his toes and craning his neck just to catch a glimpse.

“This femme, has been through the Pit.

“--a survivor of the war.”

“--Former Autobot who suffered the loss of their entire team due to the negligence of her commanders. But she’s committed to using her experience to help bring about a better Cybertron..."

Jazz froze when he finally was able to see the mech and femme through the crowd, Sparkbeat echoing in his audials.

The femme gave a solitary nod, lifted her helm and it was then that Jazz could see. And he felt all the Energon in his lines grow cold.

It was Demaxx. He knew that even before the mech announced her name and a few bots in the crowd cheered.

And she was looking directly at him.

But the look she was aiming at him wasn’t warm or teeming with recognition. It was dark and cold, a stark contrast to the bright happy colors she bore. It was a look that Jazz recognized from the war, that promised only the absolute worst in a bot’s Spark. It lasted for an instant, maybe even less, and then she blinked and she was looking away with a smile and waving at the bots in the crowd.

Jazz took a step back, optics wide behind his visor and Sparkbeat increasing in fear. Forgoing formalities he turned and pushed his way through the crowd, not stopping until his vision flooded with the colors of Soundwave’s familiar blue plating and red visor.

The telepath appeared to have been looking for him and Jazz reached out to latch a hand around his wrist, pulling him away from the crowd and into the safety of the moving pedestrian traffic.

“Jazz.”

The saboteur tried to assure him he was okay but his voice was shaky, too focused as he was on simply getting away.

“Jazz.” This time, Soundwave’s voice was sterner and he came to an abrupt halt. Jazz nearly tripped, his grip on the telepath’s wrist almost slipping.

The saboteur stopped but he didn’t dare turn around and face the telepath. In response, a large hand tentatively reached out and hovered over his spinal strut, lingering for a nanoklik before resting on it completely. Jazz leaned into the touch, a broken sigh escaping him as the touch served to finally ground him. Instinctively, his hands curled over his ventrum and he wanted nothing more than to be somewhere far away from the city, somewhere where there wasn’t so much danger and madness threatening to pull the stable footing he’d found out from under him.

He’d been such a fool.

Jazz thought that if he could somehow make it to Iacon, he would find himself relieved of all the burdens he’d been recently bearing but it’d turned out that he’d been fooling no one but himself. Because the things he was fighting against weren’t simple little things. They were monumental, catalysts in the making that had the potential to ignite another civil war that would tear the planet apart again.

Maybe even this time for good.

And it turned out that he hadn’t escaped anything. Demaxx’s presence indicated as such. Because it was just like Reverb said...his influence was ever-reaching.

Soundwave’s hands were rubbing his back soothingly, seeking to comfort but also asking for a response and Jazz was almost afraid to look at him. He could feel the familiar bitterness and fear from before taking hold of hid Spark, driving away the warmth and happiness they’d found in the hallway of the hotel an orn ago.

Hand pressing over his chest, Jazz closed his optics and counted to ten. Then fifteen. He counted every nanoklik until he was able to bring the cold panic that was gripping him under control. By then, the bots around them had given them a wide berth and a few were casting a few questioning looks in his direction.

But Jazz ignored them as he straightened up, rubbing his face with his hands as he slowly turned to look at Soundwave. The blue host mech was looking at him with an inquisitive expression, helm tilted to one side as his arms hovered on either side of Jazz, comforting but keeping just enough distance so as not to encumber.

“Sorry,” Jazz whispered, smiling weakly. “I kind of lost my head there.”

Soundwave shook his helm, “Jazz, does not need to apologize.” He placed his hands on the saboteur’s shoulders, massaging gently for a few kliks before very briefly leaning down to press his forehead against Jazz’s. Immediately, Jazz felt a small warmth emanate from the touch and spread along his frame, washing away the tenseness from his struts and momentarily ridding his Spark of that cold feeling. It was Soundwave’s telepathy at work, Jazz knew, but he didn’t feel afraid of the sensation like he would’ve a couple decaorns ago.

It wasn’t intrusive. It didn’t seek to delve into his memory banks or sneak into his processor; it simply offered the warmth that Jazz desperately needed.

When they pulled back, Jazz asked, “let’s just go back, yeah? No more exploring. No more adventures.”

Soundwave had no issues with that. Nodding once, the telepath responded with a soft confirmatory and placed his arm around Jazz’s shoulders as they continued on their way.

Back in their hotel room, Jazz immediately went to sit down on the berth, his arms wrapped tightly around his belly. Soundwave locked the door and kneeled in front of him, blue hands gently placing themselves on the saboteur’s knees.

He didn’t ask anything or speak; just merely peered into Jazz’s face until he relaxed enough to lift his helm and meet the telepath’s gaze. Vaguely, he noticed that Lazerbeak was gone from Soundwave’s shoulder but his processor pushed that thought to the back of his mind.

“Jazz, unwell.” Soundwave stated softly.

Jazz rubbed one of his cheeks with the back of his hand, chuckling weakly. “Is it that obvious?”

“Soundwave, has learned to read Jazz’s expressions,” the telepath intoned.

The smile Jazz was nothing short of endearing but it was nothing compared to the scrutinizing look he offered in turn, with his wide optics and flickering blue visor. Black hands rose to cup Soundwave’s side vents and Jazz leaned forward a bit, bringing their faces closer together.

“Can I ask you something?” The saboteur eventually asked, analyzing the optics he could faintly see behind the vermillion optical band. “Something personal?”

“Jazz, may ask anything.”

Jazz hesitated. “How...how exactly do you know Reverb? You keep telling me he’s your family...but none of my research during the war ever listed you as having any kin.” He paused, carefully choosing his words. “Why is he so important to you?”

Soundwave was silent for a long time, frozen underneath Jazz’s hands like a statue. But then he moved and when he did, it was to gently remove Jazz’s hands from his face and rise to his feet. For a moment, Jazz was afraid the telepath was evading the question but before he could even ask any questions, Soundwave was sitting down beside him on the berth, their arms and knees brushing against one another.

Leaning into the contact, Jazz turned his helm and waited.

“Reverb, is not kin by Spark.” Soundwave began. “Reverb, an acquaintance made during Soundwave’s youth. Before the war, before the corruption of the original Senate.” He shifted, hands clasping in his lap and elbows resting on his knees. “Soundwave, was illegitimate creation of a Senator. Created accidentally but welcomed eagerly; my sire, found interest in outliers after my conception and opened his estate to outliers in need.”

Jazz nodded, listening intently. Soundwave continued. “Soundwave, had difficulties controlling host mech coding. Spark split every six orns, in effort to siphon off naturally occurring extra energy. Rumble, Frenzy, first creations to be sparked. Lazerbeak and Buzzsaw, were next. Soundwave, unsure of care and nurture and all suffered repurcussions. But sire and carrier, unsure of how to offer care. Medics, not well versed in host mech biology. Soundwave, suffering. Symbionts, suffering.”

A brief paused fell over them, Soundwave’s grip tightening as the unpleasant memories swept over him. Jazz’s optic ridges furrowed slightly and he reached his EM field out, meshing with the telepath and offering sympathy that was received gratefully.

“Orns before condition could worsen, guest arrived at sire’s estate. A host mech.”

“Reverb,” Jazz whispered, and Soundwave nodded.

“Reverb and Rethelia, host mechs forged by other host mechs. Both, lost their blacksmith guardians and wandered...until they learned of outlier sanctuary. Reverb, Rethelia, taught Soundwave how to nurture symbionts, how to use extra Spark energy to cultivate symbionts’ growth and prevent creation of other creations.” A blue hand placed itself over his chest’s plexiglass, where the symbionts recharged. “They...saved our lives.”

Jazz’s lips pursed but he said nothing. But his gaze was soft as he stared sat Soundwave’s hand; he wouldn’t ever outwardly admit it but he’d grown attached to the little cretins, and hearing of how they’d been so close to puttering out eons before he had met them made him feel terrible.

When Soundwave didn’t continue, Jazz asked, “I can only guess the war didn’t make things end well with you guys, right?”

“Estate, destroyed during initial riots. Sire, killed during Starscream’s massacre of the Council.”

The saboteur started, caught off guard by the revelation. “Why’d you...?” Jazz struggled to find the right words. “Why’d you join the Decepticons then?”

Soundwave looked away, “Sire, was misguided. Did not believe in rising Decepticon threat. Did nothing when his estate and wards were destroyed. Soundwave, placed under Ratbat’s upkeep during events, was already too invested in revolution to turn back.”

Jazz swallowed roughly, his mouth opened and closed as he tried to find a way to respond to what Soundwave had just shared but for the life of him, nothing popped up in his processor. No words of empathy or sympathy, nothing. He wanted to be Soundwave’s anchor, to be the calm serenity the telepath was for him but if Jazz was being honest with himself, he found himself conflicted.

He despised Reverb. Despised everything he represented, what he stood for. But he was the reason why Soundwave was here today. If it hadn’t been for him...

The saboteur couldn’t even stand to think of the implications. Just the thought of a world with Soundwave made him feel empty and alone, reminding him of how bleak the war would’ve been, how lonely this post-war society would be.

It was an unbearable thought.

Cycling a small ventilation, Jazz pressed himself against Soundwave’s side. It was an awkward fitting, with Soundwave’s shoulders being far too high for Jazz and his arms too short, but somehow the saboteur managed to wrap his arms around the telepath and Soundwave pivoted his torso just enough so that their kibble didn’t get in the way.

“I’m sorry,” Jazz whispered softly. Sorry for what they went through. Sorry for the fragged-up circumstances that shaped them into who they were. Sorry for everything being too much and nothing being enough, even now.

Soundwave’s frame gave a gentle hum and he pulled back to look the saboteur in the optics. “Jazz, has nothing to be sorry for.”

They both knew the words were a lie. But Jazz didn’t have it in him to argue the fact. Instead, he offered a smile and an amused shake of his helm, dissipating the somber atmosphere and turning it into something less so.

“Doesn’t mean I won’t keep trying to pay my dues,” Jazz breathed; the fingers of one of his hands were curled around one of Soundwave’s arm braces and they relaxed just enough to tickle the seams they encountered there, following the familiar lines like the path on a map.

Soundwave’s visor warmed at the touch and slowly, Jazz felt one of the telepath’s hands slowly inch its way towards his knee, the tips of his fingers rubbing gentle circles into the alloy. The saboteur shifted slightly, turning his frame to give the hand better access.

It only seemed natural.

“I missed you, y’know.” Jazz said as his fingers continued their ministrations. “Every orn I was in the estate, every nanoklik that you weren’t there...”

Soundwave nodded, “Jazz, was also missed.”

“...we were so stupid, weren’t we? Letting each other go like we did. When we could’ve done so much better.” Jazz’s fingers traced up the telepath’s arm, over his shoulder until they rested against one of Soundwave’s side vents. “I wish things were different.”

The unspoken emotion behind those words made a pained flicker flash across Soundwave’s visor and the fingers on Jazz’s knee tightened their grip. “Things, are different.”

Jazz’s lower lip trembled. “No, they’re not. We messed up, Sounders. So badly. And now the bitlet’s stranded in the middle of this and your best friend’s trying to start a war against the only family I’ve ever had in my life and we are no closer to finding a solution than we were before.” He paused, ventilations shaky as he recalled the event at the market square. “Don’t you see? We’re in limbo. Whatever we choose to do, one of is always going to end up losing.”

“Negative,” Soundwave replied, sternly shaking his helm. “Soundwave, will _not_ lose Jazz.”

It didn’t escape Jazz’s notice that their faces were separated by scant inches now, his ventilations close enough to lightly fog up Soundwave’s visor. “I don’t want to lose you, either. But I don’t--.”

The sound of the telepath’s mask transforming away was the last thing Jazz registered before he found himself trailing off as a pair of warm lips pressed against his own. He immediately recognized the familiar metallic taste of Soundwave, the one that made processor feel woozy and his Spark sing. He didn’t try to push away; instead he leaned in, lips parting and molding sofly against Soundwave’s.

They pulled back after a moment, vents ragged and optics bright as they gazed at each other with a familiar warmth coiling in their bellies.

“Still a slagging good kisser,” Jazz whispered and the smile Soundwave offered in turn nearly made him melt.

“Jazz, beautiful.”

“I know.”

With that brief and nostalgic repertoire exchanged between them, they leaned in once more to press their lips together. This time was different the previous times they’d found themselves in this precarious situation; the first time in Uraya had been brightened by the joy of a new attraction, bolstered by the curiosity of the unknown. The second time at the estate had been chaste and quick, sating an itch that did nothing acerbate the emotional wounds they’d both carried.

But now they were no longer held back by their circumstances, no emotional walls or underhanded reasons stood between them. They knew the steps to this dance well and they reveled in the familiarity, letting instinct and genuine pleasure guide them.

Soundwave’s glossa pressed insistently against Jazz’s lips and the saboteur opened his mouth eagerly, moaning and sighing as the telepath traced the inside of his oral cavity. Jazz’s own joined the dance with gusto, licking and kissing and tracing every inch of that beautiful mouth that was kept hidden from the world just for him.

When the telepath gently began to push him back against the berth, Jazz went willingly and he let out a small laugh when Soundwave pulled his helm back and pressed his face against his neck.

Having done this before, it was easier for Soundwave to remember how to balance himself on his hands and knees to void injuring Jazz. Even if he couldn’t press every inch of his frame against the saboteur’s as he would like, he knew of other ways he could make Jazz feel good. Briefly, he remembered something he’d wanted to try before and a smile pulled at his lips as he abandoned the warmth of Jazz’s neck and slowly licked a trail down the saboteur’s frame.

Jazz’s back arched slightly off the berth when Soundwave’s glossa tickled a few seams over his Sparkchamber, hands falling to his sides and fisting into the covers.

The telepath took his time as he made his descent, peppering the different but familiar frame with small, faint kisses and murmuring indiscernible words of love and adoration in between every one. When he arrived at the tiny bump on Jazz’s ventrum, he allowed one hand to rest against the curve reverently as he pressed a slow languid kiss against the soft alloy.

Before Jazz had time to say anything, Soundwave continued his trek until his lips found themselves hovering over the rapidly warming modesty panel between the silver mech’s legs, his blue hands resting on the inside of Jazz’s thighs and gently pushing them apart.

“Soundwave,” Jazz gasped, helm lifting as he caught on to what the telepath had in mind. His visor was burning a bright blue, lips parted and shiny with oral lubricant.

The blue host mech smiled and without breaking optic contact leaned forward to press an open-mouthed kiss against the rapidly warming panel. It burned his lips in the best possible way, like those spicy Energon gummies he was so fond of, and he hummed in pleasure as he bent his head down once more. Soundwave was careful and soft with his ministrations, following a pattern that soon had the saboteur squirming and muttering breathy encouragements.

The telepath reveled in those sounds, a small part of him feeling triumphant at the fact that it was him bringing Jazz so much pleasure, and his thumbs rubbed gentle circles into the smooth thigh plating.

When one of those thumbs dipped into the space where Jazz’s leg and hip armor met, caressing delicate circuits and wires, the soft noises descended into a groan that reverberated deep within the saboteur’s chest. Each touch made the temperature of Jazz’s panel increase until it finally snapped back eagerly and presented Soundwave with the saboteur’s swollen and soaked valve.

It was the same as it had been in Uraya, white valve lips with a glowing blue anterior node, which pulsed in tune with the sharp twitching of Jazz’s hips. The sharp scent of the sabotuer’s arousal made Soundwave’s mouth water and he wanted nothing more than to dive in and bring Jazz to as many overloads as he could possibly muster.

But he held himself back, reminding himself that there was time; they were safe here, away from the violence and the politics of their worlds and he had all the time in the world to explore and refamiliarize himself with Jazz’s frame.

Carefully, Soundwave readjusted his position so that his knees were on the ground, lifting Jazz’s hips until he could get his shoulders underneath the saboteur’s knees. Then he placed a gentle kiss on that glowing anterior node, lips teasingly brushing against the soft little nub.

Jazz huffed impatiently, hips trying to move towards the pleasurable contact. “Don’t be a tease.”

Soundwave responded by murmuring apologetically, dragging his mouth over the swollen folds of the valve and stopping to press a firm kiss over the saboteur’s dripping center. He proceeded to repeat the process over and over, glossa peeking out to catch the trickles of lubricant that gushed out on occasion, until Jazz’s helm was lolling on the berth’s surface, his fans roared and his shaking fingers clawed at the sheets.

From his position, Soundwave could see the mesh inside of Jazz’s valve clench rhythmically, desperate to be filled and he couldn’t help but oblige. He traced the rim with two fingers, teasing the nodes for a few nanokliks before carefully pressing them inside, reveling at how easily the mesh walls gave away, a clear indication of Jazz’s arousal. Immediately, Jazz’s calipers cycled down on the intrusions, pulling and pulling them in with a force that made Soundwave’s ventilations stutter.

Finding that he couldn’t hold himself back anymore, Soundwave began to lick and suck at every node his mouth could reach while his fingers began a languid thrusting. His senses became overwhelmed with the scent and taste of Jazz, of that bright and tingling sensation that danced across his glossa every time he lapped up lubricant and his lips pressed against every sensitive node in reach. Every place his fingers brushed over silver alloy, arcs of blue electricity rose and fell, mixing with the waves of heat their sweltering frames were emitting.

It was everything he’d envisioned, right down from the intoxicating taste to the symphony of Jazz’s cries that rose in pitch with each thrust of his fingers, every swipe of his glossa. His own spike throbbed painfully and insistently behind his panel, desperate to sink into the slick tight warmth he remembered, but the telepath soon found his own frame’s desires increasingly easy to ignore.

This was enough. Being able to bring Jazz pleasure would always be enough for him. Hearing those soft little gasps, feeling the way his legs trembled under the onslaught of ecstasy, those were things Soundwave knew he would never get tired of. Even if he heard them for countless millennia in the future, over and over again every orn, they would still be as enjoyable as the first time he had the pleasure of hearing them.

The thought of forever made Soundwave’s Spark swell and a warmth bloom in his chest. Optics shuttering tightly in concentration, he pressed in a little harder, fingers and lips and glossa increasing their tempo until Jazz’s thighs were squeezing Soundwave’s helm and he was begging for release.

Soundwave obliged. Without pausing the movements of his fingers, he wrapped his lips around Jazz’s node and sucked. Jazz sobbed as the pleasure became more focused, charge gathering in his frame and pushing him closer and closer to the edge of the precipice he was hanging on. His hands let go of the covers and groped around wildly, desperately searching for something to tether him on the wave of euphoria he was currently riding.

When Soundwave’s hand met his and their fingers interlocked, Jazz found his catalyst.

His visor flared pure white as his helm fell back, his frame tensed and his mouth opened in a silent scream of ecstasy as overload overtook his frame and his mind became full of stars.

It seemed like an eternity before Jazz finally came down, Soundwave’s glossa guiding him through the remnants of his overload in a way that prolonged the pleasure. When he did, his frame was completely lax, only trembling slightly as the last traces of charge dissipated into the berth.

He tried to speak at first but only static escaped his lips and so he expressed his gratitude by gently squeezing Soundwave’s hand.

Giving the oft twitching valve one final swipe of his glossa, Soundwave rose to stare at the saboteur’s face, well aware of the lubricant that stained his exposed faceplates. Jazz’s visor flickered lazily online and he managed an amused smile upon seeing the telepath’s face, helm giving the slightest of shakes.

“C’mere,” Jazz whispered, pulling on Soundwave’s hand. The telepath smiled at the invitation and lowered the silver mech’s hips back on the berth and shakily crawled over to lay beside the saboteur.

Jazz turned as best he could and he took a moment to appreciate the glossy shine of Soundwave’s lips. “Thank you.”

Soundwave responded by leaning in to press his lips against Jazz, who grinned mischievously and dragged his glossa across Soundwave’s lips, tasting himself. When they pulled back, Jazz’s visor was glowing a soft blue hue as he reached up to caress one of Soundwave’s cheeks with the back of his fingers.

They remained like that for a while until they both felt the familiar hand of recharge wrapping around them and they nestled into each other’s warmth, frames purring in contentment as they drifted off together into unconsciousness.

Soundwave awoke a few joors later to the sensation of warm hands brushing across his plating, fingers digging into seams and stimulating sensitive and oft-touched nodes.  When his visor flickered online, it took him a moment to realize he was on his back and Jazz was straddling his midsection with a smile on his faceplates and a bright gleam in his visor.

The telepath hummed, hands going to Jazz’s knees and rubbing gentle circles into them, as he always seemed to do in these situations.

“Jazz, recharged well?” He asked, ignoring the static lacing his voice.

Jazz nodded, “best recharge I’ve had in a while.” He leaned forward as best he could, hands resting on the plexiglass of Soundwave’s chest. “But I woke up and noticed you were still running hot and thought you might need a little help dispelling some charge.”

It was almost comical how quickly Soundwave’s spike panel warmed at the invitation and judging by the smirk that crossed Jazz’s face, he’d noticed it as well.

The saboteur gave his hips an experimental roll and Soundwave groaned, the sensation of the saboteur’s weight over him doing wonderful things to his warming array.

“Glad to see I still have an effect on you,” Jazz joked.

Soundwave swiftly replied, “Jazz, always has an effect.” One of his hands lifted to cup Jazz’s cheek. “Jazz, beautiful."

Jazz ducked his helm bashfully. “Alright, alright, don’t go getting sappy on me, mech.” His gaze snapped up and a rapacious grin parted his faceplates. “We got work to do, remember?”

How could he forget? Soundwave glanced down Jazz’s frame, analyzing the saboteur’s ventrum before looking up with an inquisitive expression on his face. “Jazz can interface in this position?”

“Not really,” Jazz said, smile faltering. “My joints are toast, if you’ll excuse the Earth phrase.” He clumsily rolled off the telepath and onto his knees on the berth, one hand balancing himself on the berth while the other placed itself over his ventrum and made sure he didn’t exacerbate his frame’s already precarious structure.

Satisfied, he glanced at Soundwave and nodded. “Jespa gave me a little pamphlet with carrier interfacing positions once,” he explained with an exasperated roll of his optics. “Obviously, I threw it away but I did get in a few pages beforehand. Turns out it is useful.” Jazz lifted a shoulder up in a shrug, readopting that charming smile of his. “So whaddya say? Feel inclined to try this out?”

Soundwave didn’t have to be told twice. Rolling onto his side he gently grabbed the back of Jazz’s helm and pulled him in for a soft kiss that soon turned into a messy battle for dominance between their lips and glossa. Their fans sputtered online with a vengeance and when they pulled back to gaze into each other’s optics, hot exvents were being exchanged between them.

It took a little trial and error for them to slot themselves together comfortably but when they finally did, they wasted no more time. Soundwave’s hands rested on Jazz’s hips, their arrays pressed against one another as he pressed soft kisses on the back of the saboteur’s neck and spinal strut.

Jazz leaned into the contact, engine revving as the languid foreplay eventually did its job. Before long, the saboteur was pushing back against Soundwave’s pelvis insistently and his visor burned with need as he looked at the telepath over his shoulder.

“I want you in me, lover.”

Soundwave stifled a groan at the words and display, optics sweeping in the view of the former SpecOps commander on his hands and knees, panels retracted and lubricant steadily streaming down his thighs. The telepath’s fingers traced the kibble on dark grey hips, the complicated array of a spinal strut and his own panel pulled back, allowing his aching spike the opportunity to final pressurize.

Perhaps Jazz had lost a good portion of his mass and strength when his frame had been rebuilt but there was no denying the durable tension in the cables lingering in the seams of his flared plating. They spoke of eons of careful training and maintenance, the only reminders of just exactly who the saboteur had been before all of this.

Who he still was, in spite of everything.

But as much as Soundwave wanted to observe what made the saboteur’s frame such an intrigue, he lost all sense of rational thought as he approached the mech’s valve. It was dripping, warm and he could feel the gathering charge lingering on the nodes. He took the time to dip a finger inside, massaging the mesh walls until they dilated enough to allow another finger and then another, alternating between thrusting and scissoring them until Jazz was riding their motions and moaning softly.

Soundwave pulled his hand back upon feeling the other mech’s readiness and placing his wet hand back on Jazz’s hips, he lined the tip of his spike up and thrust inside.

Jazz let out a choked gasp as Soundwave impaled him, the sensation of the large spike splitting his valve making his back arch and setting his array on fire with different sensations. Soundwave took advantage of the pose to wrap an arm around the mech’s chest, pulling their frames flush against each other as much as they possibly could.

“Sounders...” Jazz groaned, turning his helm to press their cheeks together until their mouths met in a chaste kiss. They were silent for a couple astroseconds, reveling in the push and pull of their frames with only gentle gasps and moans perforating the air. Jazz did his best to contribute to this dance of theirs, striving to swivel his hips and cycle his calipers at a tempo he knew Soundwave liked but his movements were clumsy and uncoordinated. He’d jumped into this expecting to give but it seemed that he was the one ending up doing the receiving; each thrust lit up his nodes so deliciously and his Spark whirled erratically in his chest as pleasure once more threatened to overtake him.

Not a moment after, Soundwave’s grip on Jazz tightened to the point of near pain and the telepath pulled his helm back and pressed his forehead against the back of Jazz’s helm, licking and sucking at whatever part of Jazz was in reach.

“J-Jazz...!” Soundwave grunted harshly, vocalizer spitting static as lust spliced through his lines and his entire frame burned with charge. He was close, Jazz could feel it and the realization made the embers in his abdomen spark into a raging inferno.

“Do it,” Jazz breathed, his grip on Soundwave’s hand tightening. “Give me everything.”

Moments after the words left his mouth, the telepath thrust a few more times before he grinded in hard and deep, entire frame stiffening. Jazz felt the rush of hot transfluid hitting his nodes, the spike inside him pulsing as waves of Soundwave’s charge coated his valve walls and pressed insistently against his ceiling node.

It wasn’t enough to push the saboteur into overload but he didn’t mind, the sensations alone were enough for him. But the thought hadn’t finished crossing his mind before he felt a wet finger pressing insistently against his anterior node, caressing at first but then circling the bright blue nub with just enough force for Jazz’s elbows to shake and to cause his vison dissolve into static and stars.

“Holy frag!” Jazz cried, entire frame bucking. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare fucking stop--!” Another finger joined the fray and Jazz couldn’t hold back the sob that tore through his vocalizer, hips rolling shamelessly into the furtive little touches. Behind him, Soundwave pumped his hips lazily and before long, the combined onslaught on his valve and node sent Jazz into a mind-numbingly good overload.

It was only Soundwave’s hold on him that kept Jazz from falling face-first into the berth. The telepath pushed himself back to rest on his heels, carefully pulling out of Jazz. Golden optics watched with rapt attention as silvery transfluid and lubricant gushed out of the swollen white valve and stained the saboteur’s thighs and the sheets underneath.

Jazz shivered at the loss of contact and with Soundwave’s assistance, rolled to rest on his back on the berth with an awed expression.

“Wow,” he breathed.

“Affirmative,” Soundwave replied, settling on the saboteur’s side with the hiss of hydraulics.

Strong arms wrapped around Jazz and the saboteur snuggled into them, making sure his EM field was wide open to let the host mech know just how appreciative he was. Soundwave pressed a soft kiss to Jazz’s helm, acknowledging.

“Jazz, happy?”

 Jazz let out a small chuckle. “Sounders, that was originally meant to be for you.” He paused and smiled softly. “But now it’s taking all of my manners not to ask for an encore. So yeah, I’m happy. As the humans say, I’m on cloud nine.”

They allowed themselves a moment to let their frames cool off, content to simply close their optics and bask in the haze of post-overload bliss. The _tick-tick_ of cooling metal mixed with the sound of their vents and the sounds of the outside worlds were but a distant hum in their audials.

Eventually Jazz was the one to break the silence.

“Do you by any chance have any schematics of my old frame lying around in that processor of yours?”

Soundwave frowned slightly, but before he could ask why, Jazz added, “I’d like to take advantage of Axiom’s second option. Y’know, the one with the whole frame rebuild that includes all the necessary codes and transformations for emergence.” He paused, lifting a hand to analyze his current dark grey and silver color scheme. “I kinda miss the old black and white.

“Old frame...” Soundwave began, turning to look at Jazz. “Jazz, wishes to rescind proclamation of demise?”

The saboteur hesitated for a moment and one of his hand instinctually clutched at his ventrum. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

Jazz sighed, helm turning so his blue visor could meet Soundwave’s scarlet. “Because I can’t take care of a bitlet while I’m on the run, Sounders. Even if I build a new life, take a new name and go live on some distant little rock on the outskirts of the galaxy once all of this is over, my past’s still gonna follow me. And I don’t want something as dangerous as that nipping at the heels of my creation.”

Silence followed his words, the frigidity of it trickling into the small bubble they’d built and plunging a cold bucket of reality over them.  Soundwave glanced away to stare at the ceiling, optics narrowing slightly as he pondered the saboteur’s words. He didn’t move an inch but Jazz could literally feel how he was pulling into himself again, each moment putting lightyears of distance between them.

Unable to stand the thought, Jazz reached out and clasped one of the telepath’s hands, gripping on for all that he was worth. “Don’t go,” he breathed and his voice carried a melancholy that tore at Soundwave’s Spark.

Slowly, blue fingers responded and curled tightly around the saboteur’s. “Soundwave, will remain.”

“Good.” Jazz brought their linked hands and pressed a soft kiss to the back of the telepath’s hand, optics shuttered low behind his visor. When he dropped them to rest in the scant space between them, the saboteur turned to look at the ceiling and tried to change the topic of conversation.

“Tell me, Sounders, you ever think about designations?”

“Designations?” Soundwave echoed, surprised.

Jazz nodded. “Yeah. The bitlet’s gotta have a name.” His lips twisted to one side as he thought for a moment before his visor brightened momentarily with an epiphany. “Like Virtuoso. Or Saxo.”

Soundwave did his best not to frown at the names but there was no halting the dislike that trickled into his voice. “Names...satisfactory.”

Face falling, Jazz asked, “you don’t like them?”

The lack of a response was answer enough though Jazz didn’t appear to be hurt by the rejection. Instead, he gave the telepath a gentle nudge and smile. “Alrighty then, let’s hear what you have in mind.”

That made Soundwave freeze. Designations? His Sparkbeat stuttered a bit at the thought and his mind pulled up nothing but a monotonous blank. Unlike Jazz, he hadn’t given the subject much thought and it was slowly becoming painfully obvious.

Jazz’s smile abated. “Don’t have any?”

It was easy to hear the disappointment in Jazz’s voice and it tore at Soundwave’s Spark in ways he couldn’t imagine were possible. He could guess what the saboteur was thinking; that he didn’t care about the creation, that his only focus was Jazz and Jazz alone and if any feelings towards the unborn sparkling arose, it was due purely to creator coding and host mech protocols.

And it was true. But only partially.

Perhaps host mech protocols had played a factor in making him love his symbionts. After all, it was difficult not to feel some smidge of affection for a being that was created from an energy siphon of one’s own Spark. But that hadn’t been the only thing. It’d also taken time and cultivation of their bond, spending time together and learning about the individual personalities of each. Seeing their quirks, learning about their budding hopes and aspirations.

But his relationship with the bitlet was different.

He hadn’t even known it existed until recently. Already it was orns away from emerging and he didn’t even know the naturally occurring rhythm of its Sparkbeat. He’d never seen a scan to see what it’d looked like as a ball of energy circling Jazz’s Spark, hadn’t been there to see when it’d fallen into the gestation stage and Jazz’s frame had adapted to its growing protoform.

It’d been an idea...and just recently, Soundwave was truly starting to realize that it was so much more. More than a possibility. It was a reality.

And though he wasn’t leaping bounds with joy at the prospect, he wasn’t fearing it either. He was carefully expecting it with a curious affection.

He would love the bitlet for it was a representation of the affection he and Jazz had for one another.

But he would also love it because it was a part of him. Regardless of who they would turn out to be, what they would do or say or dream, he knew his affection for it would remain. There was no logic to the answer to satisfy his loyalty coding but it did not matter. Because these kinds of things rarely had straightforward answers.

Glancing at Jazz, Soundwave unclasped his hand from the saboteur’s and laid it over his belly.

“Aura,” he said softly.

 Jazz was silent for a moment, as if not understanding but then his visor brightened in understanding.

“Aura,” he repeated, tasting each glyph with a curious flicker in his EM field.  Soundwave couldn’t tell if that was disapproval or approval in the saboteur’s voice but judging by the way Jazz placed his hand over the back of his, perhaps it hadn’t been a completely horrible suggestion.

“Vibes,” Jazz said some time later, snuggling closer to Soundwave. “I like the sound of that one.”

It wasn’t terrible, Soundwave surmised. He felt the edges of his mouth lifting as they fell into a steady back and forth, optics bright and hands clasped securely over the bump of their growing creation.

 

~~~

 

“Meister?”

Jazz glanced up from the game he’d been playing with Frenzy, some odd clapping hands thing that made absolutely no sense, and saw Axiom standing on the edge of the waiting area with an expectant tilt of his helm.

It’d been a couple orns since Jazz had last been to the institute and it’d been largely in part because of his own indecision and fear. Granted, his time spent reconnecting with Soundwave, in all senses of the word, had played a part in getting his answer back to Axiom during the specified time frame but Jazz wasn’t about to relay that as his reason for scheduling an appointment. He’d simply said some things came up and that had been that.

There were a couple other bots waiting alongside him, a pair of mechs and a lone femme, the latter which had seen him interacting with Rumble and Frenzy and asked if they were his creations.

The two symbionts had gone and laughed but before Jazz could even muster up an answer, they’d replied with a deadpan ‘yes’ and gone back to their game. It’d taken Jazz a few moments to regain his composure but the need to rectify their words never came up and he simply shrugged and let formalities lie.

Axiom smiled professionally as Jazz walked up to him but Jazz could tell that it was for the sake of keeping up appearances. He placed a stiff hand on Jazz’s shoulder and led him into the maze of offices, glancing around to make sure nobody was in the vicinity before allowing his face to fall into a frown.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” he said, tone curt.

Jazz frowned. “I made an appointment,” he replied.

“Yes, you did.” Axiom’s voice trembled with barely suppressed with dislike and Jazz’s optics went to the hand holding the datapad, noticing how his grip was so tight that his knuckles were bulging. “But three orns late. I have other patients, mind you and even if Jespa was the bot who recommended you, I am more than willing to put aside professional courtesy aside for the sake of patient discipline.”

The last word was all but spat out and Jazz took a reflexive step back, everything about this confusing him.

“I’m sorry,” Jazz said, attempting to apologize. He wanted to glance back and see where they door was in case he needed to make a break for it but his instincts were telling him not to turn his back for a second. “But as I said, some things came up and I couldn’t--”

“What kind of things?” Axiom said, anger dissipating and a cold, almost dead, bemusement replacing it.

The change in attitude was enough to jumpstart Jazz’s battle computer. He discreetly tried to pull up a comm line up with Frenzy but only static met his attempts. Odd but not unusual. Reception was bound to be bad in a facility housing expensive equipment and laboratories.

“I went to pick up some equipment for my sparkling a couple orns ago. Mesh blankets, filters...”

Axiom scoffed, “Really?”

Alarm bells went off at the mech’s tone, that hint of disbelief that made a cold shiver run up the sabotuer’s spinal strut. Jazz kept his façade as neutral as possible. “Yes.”

“Hm.” Axiom glanced at his datapad and shook his helm, “Fine. Come along.” He began walking down the hallway and though initially hesitated, he eventually ended up following. He still kept trying to reach Rumble and Frenzy but to no avail.

“The procedure is going to be difficult,” Axiom stated, not even bothering to glance back at Jazz. They took a right turn and descended down a brightly lit hallway with sparse doors, all of them closed. It was unfamiliar, certainly not one that Jazz had seen during his previous visit but then again, it was a big facility. “You might want to call someone to be here to receive you.”

“I already have someone,” Jazz stated a little too quickly. “The two bots outside. They’re friends of mine.”

“I meant it in an encompassing manner, of course. Those two may lead you back home but do they have the resources to accommodate you?”

Finding the straight-forward questions to be a little more familiar, the saboteur felt himself relax. But only a little. “Yes.”

“Are you sure?” They made a sharp left turn this time and Jazz stiffened when he noticed that the walls were absent of any decorations or signs, only cold silver alloy taking its place and an odd haunting echo followed their every step. His steps faltered but he still had it in his to answer an affirmative, a hand instinctually going to his belly.

Axiom came to an abrupt stop, helm turning so that Jazz could see but his scant profile. “I sincerely doubt it. Wouldn’t you like to call your mate? I’m certain that the Senator’s a busy mech but even he must have time for you, would he not?”

Jazz shook his helm, “No, I’m fi--.” He froze, the words and realization finally sinking in. Optics widened behind a flaring blue visor; his vents stuttered and his vocalizer spit static.

He tried Rumble and Frenzy again and static answered back once more.

“Who the slag are you?” His voice was but a whisper but the shock behind it allowed the words a bit of force.

Axiom turned to look at him fully now, a grin parting his faceplates. “Now, now, Meister...” the mech cajoled, voice cracking on the last few glyphs as Axiom’s plating rippled in a hauntingly familiar format, shifting and moving until slivers of purple appeared and slotted themselves in place. In less than a blink of an optic, Axiom disappeared and the tall familiar silhouette of the former Decepticon shapeshifter loomed in the hallway.

“Makeshift,” Jazz hissed.

“In the flesh,” Makeshift said, smooth voice echoing all around them. His scarlet optics flickered with amusement. “It certainly has been a while. You look...better than the last time I saw you.”

“Last time?”

“Mmm, yes.” The shifter crossed his arms over his chest, grinning. “Last time you looked absolutely petrified as you all but stumbled over yourself in an effort to get away after your little conversation with Reverb.” He took a step forward, optics narrowing as he took in Jazz’s frame with a sweeping look.

“You’re practically glowing. Tell me, is it because of Iacon’s sun or does fucking Soundwave really bring you so much pleasure?”

Mention of the blue host mech made Jazz’s façade falter a little bit and the shifter’s optics lit up, immediately going in with a vengeance. “Ah, so it is the latter. Interesting.” He straightened himself up, one hand curled into a fist underneath his chin. “Reverb won’t be pleased.”

The shifter took a step forward and Jazz scrambled backwards, battle computer flaring online. “Don’t you dare take another step!”

Makeshift laughed, “feisty, aren’t we?”

“There’s 90 different ways you can take down a shifter,” Jazz recited, voice somehow managing to stay steady in spite of the adrenaline coursing through his lines. “Just because I’m carrying doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten.”

Immediately, Makeshift’s features hardened and his optics slowly narrowed into slits. “92,” he corrected stiffly, upper lip curling into a sneer as recognition flashed in those burning scarlet pools. He was silent for a moment, helm tilting to and fro as the puzzle pieces slowly fit into place. A growl rumbled in his throat and his hands fell to clench into fists at his sides. “But of course, you already knew that. You practically invented the last two. Didn’t you, _Jazz_?”

The spoken glyphs hung in the air for a moment, sounding almost foreign to the saboteur. So long he’d been using his alias that it’d practically become a part of him, his actual designation sounding akin to a curse word that younglings spoke only when they were far away from the listening audials of their creators.

Jazz expected to feel relieved at finally being able to dispel the pleasantries. He could finally fight. Could finally call on his knowledge without justifying it or hiding it behind a mantle of meekness and ignorance.

But in spite of all of that, all he could think about were the implications of what the loss of his cover meant.

Soundwave.

Soundwave was in danger. Because who would ever believe that the former Decepticon communications officer hadn’t been privy to the fact that ‘Meister’ was none other than the infamous Autobot saboteur?

Jazz felt his vitals twist, frame going numb but he couldn’t even mourn his poor choices before movement appeared in the corner of his optics and then Makeshift was looming over him with a crazed look in his optics.

Calling on instincts he’d never truly abandoned, Jazz pulled out the knife he’d been keeping his subspace all this time and brandished it with an expert twirl between his fingers. It felt recognizable in his grip, the weight and feel injecting a bit of confidence into him as he engaged his battle protocols and lunged.

His spinal strut screamed in protest, warnings flashing across his HUD about imbalanced gyros and strained joints, but somehow, someway, Jazz found himself stumbling to the other side of the hall without so much as a scratch on his frame. The knife in his hand gleamed in the dim light, reflecting the bright blue hue of the Energon that coated his hand and weapon and was now steadily dripping down his arm.

Makeshift let out a shriek of agony behind him and that was Jazz’s cue to simply run. He ran and ran as fast as he possibly could, using his arms to stop himself from running into walls as he made turns and pushed past unsuspecting mechs and femmes that stood in his way.

He saw the bright red glyphs above a door that read ‘exit’ and Jazz shouldered into it, a sharp pain shooting up his shoulder as he stumbled through it and emerged into the bright light of an empty outside lot.

A sigh of relief escaped him and he felt his frame relax minutely as the door closed behind him, falling to his knees and letting the knife clatter noisily out of his hand. The smell burned his nose but he dutifully ignored it, focusing only on calming his ventilations and pressing a hand to his belly to make sure the bitlet was still fine.

It was distressed and pulses of pain echoed through the bond from the harsh movements he made just moments before, but it wasn’t in imminent danger. It was confused and scared, but alright. Jazz swallowed the lump in his throat and smiled, rising to his feet with newfound determination as he remembered that despite his escape, he still wasn’t completely safe.

He needed to get back to Rumble and Frenzy.

To Soundwave.

But Jazz hadn’t even taken one step before he felt a prickle of uneasiness along the back of his neck, frame freezing in place as steps echoed in front of him and a painfully familiar EM field reached out to mesh with his in a saccharinely warm greeting.

Jazz let out a shaky ventilation, helm slowly rising to glance at the new arrival.

“Demaxx,” he said simply.

The femme stood a few feet away, blocking his path. Her face was pulled into a frown and one of her hands was hidden behind her back. Jazz took note of the fact that the holster on her thigh was empty.

“Meister,” Demaxx greeted, looking anything but cordial. Her optics zeroed in on the Energon caking the saboteur’s hand and she grimaced, optics narrowing. “I’m sure you’re already well aware of why I’m here.”

Jazz let out a humorless laugh. “You’re here to kill me, aren’t you?”

The femme pulled the hand out from behind her back and pointed the handheld blaster directly at Jazz’s helm. “You’ve become a pain in my employer’s side, mech. You’ve got nowhere to run and unless you’re not actually carrying, you’re unable to fight.” She gave the blaster a terse jerk to the side, gesturing for the saboteur to move. “So I suggest coming with me and we go somewhere that we can settle this as quietly as possible. How does that sound?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There wasn't supposed to be smut in this chapter, like at all. But it happened, no matter how many times I tried to rewrite it so I rolled with it and alas, here we are.


	29. Return

_“Do not go gentle into_

_that good night,  
_

_Rage, rage against the_

_dying of the light...”_

\--Dylan Thomas

 

 

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Rumble glanced up from the doodle he was making on his datapad, “what?”

Frenzy’s lips pursed even further as he straightened up in his chair, cards in his hands forgotten as he looked past his twin and at the door that Jazz and Axiom had disappeared to. Several bots had gone in and out already but none of them had been the saboteur.

“You know who. He’s been gone too long.”

At first, the long wait hadn’t bothered Frenzy. He’d known that the first part of the procedure that Jazz was going to undergo was going to be long and tedious so he’d been sure to bring along few games to keep his attention while he waited. Even when the scheduled three joors had turned into double that, he hadn’t worried, knowing that a few more joors of waiting were worth it if it meant Jazz and the bitlet would be okay.

But when Soundwave had sent them a small message asking how everything was going, the red and black symbiont had snapped out of his lull and a small tickle of uncertainty popped up in the back of his processor. Maybe it was nothing, just his paranoia kicking in, but Frenzy wasn’t about to ignore it.

Not at a moment as crucial as this.

Rumble huffed, “you’re thinking too much into it, Zee. We agreed that we’d let the Boss do all the worrying, remember?” He tried to get back to his reading but Frenzy grimaced and snapped it out of his hands. “Hey! Give that back!”

“Shhh!” Frenzy hissed, glancing around and noticing that almost half of the bots in the waiting area were looking at them. Gracefully he reached out to grasp his brother’s hand and rose to his feet, pulling his blue twin grumbling and rumbling along until they pushed through the front doors and stood at the top of the steps of the institute. Before they reached the first step, Rumble pulled his arm back and forced both of them to a grinding halt.

“Zee,” he began, optics narrowing behind his visor. “What’s gotten into you? We’re supposed to be waiting.”

“For what?” Frenzy retorted, rounding on his twin. “Jazz should’ve been outta there joors ago!” He pulled himself back a bit when he noticed he was damn near shouting, crossing his arms over his chest and tucking his hands under his biceps. Luckily there were no bots round to notice his little outburst but they’d learned long ago that they weren’t ever truly alone so it was always best to be as discreet as possible. The feeling of unease had spread, morphing into a horrible aching emptiness in his chest that sent shivers down his spinal strut. Something was wrong. Of that, Frenzy was absolutely certain now.

Some of the emotions he was feeling flooded into Rumble, their split spark pathway always opens to receive and send, and he too froze, tilting his helm as he tried to analyze everything at once.

“You’re scared,” Rumble said, tone confused. He gave his helm the slightest of shakes and reached out to grab Frenzy’s shoulders, giving him a firm but gentle shake. “Why, Frenzy?”

“I don’t know?” Frenzy said, shrugging as best he could. “But I just know...I know...” He faltered a little on the last word, huffing softly as if he were out of breath. Suddenly he was hunched over with his hands on his knees, frame rattling as he gasped through his mouth, trying to cycle his ventilations.

Rumble whimpered, “Frenzy?”

“I can’t—I don’t—wait...” The red and black symbiont fell to the floor on his hands and knees, heaving now. Underneath his fingers, Rumble felt how hot his twin’s armor was getting and he alternated between patting and tapping as he scanned his frame and tried to find the source of his condition.

And then it happened.

One moment, he’d been down on one knee analyzing the results from his scan and then the next his face was being pressed against the floor as a sharp searing pain tore through his chest. It was hard stifling the scream teetering on the tip of his glossa but he somehow managed to do so, curling into himself with only a soft whimper escaping him.

Beside him, Frenzy screamed.

Rumble’s vitals twisted as another wave of pain hit, more powerful than the last but somehow just as painful. He knew this pain; had dreaded it since he knew it existed and had hoped he’d never have to feel it again after Enemy and Howlback.

No warnings raced across his HUD as they usually did when he was faced with a life threatening physical injury. His chest was fine, perfectly intact with no Energon staining his hands or the floor underneath him.

But his Spark was another case.

Another wave of pain came and this time, Frenzy couldn’t hold back the scream of agony that was tearing at him apart from the inside. His vision went static, his only tether writhing on the ground beside him, and soon enough the sounds of the world around him became white noise and his entire world became the agony burning deep within his Spark.

 

~~~

 

**_[Sometime before]_ **

Jazz lifted his hands up in surrender, each movement slow and steady as he carefully gauged the femme holding the blaster directly at his helm.

Her grip on the weapon was firm and sure, no shaking, no indecision lingering in her optics behind her visor. They lacked the mania of a killer who enjoyed the slaughter but that didn’t necessarily make Jazz feel any better. A bot without any emotional stake during an execution was just as dangerous as the one itching to pull the trigger.

“You don’t want to do this,” he said, fighting back the urge to wrap his arms round his belly and run as fast as he could. Doing so would not only be strategically inane but it would leave him exposed and he wasn’t willing to test out just how accurate of a shot the femme was.

She’d been right about him being unable to fight...but his options hadn’t all been exhausted.

Demaxx let out a heavy sigh, shaking her helm. “Talking isn’t going to save you,” she said firmly. “I know why I’m doing this and I know that this is the right thing to do.”

Jazz frowned, “is it?” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Tell me, what good would any plan be if it involves the killing of innocent carriers?”

That made Demaxx chuckle. “Innocent? Please. You’re many things but innocent is not one of them.”

Well, slag. Jazz didn’t like the implications of that answer. “A mech’s got a right to hear what they’re biting the bullet for,” he said after a brief silence, feigning a haphazard shrug. “Mind telling me what the charges are?”

Demaxx’s optics hardened. “It’s like I said. You’re become a pain in my employer’s side.” Without warning she took a step forward, the safety on the blaster flicked back by her thumb. “Now shut up and move.”

The saboteur had no choice but to comply. With only a small nod of understanding, he pivoted on his heel and walked in the direction the femme pointed towards. The lot was empty, with the three buildings of the institute housing it in on all sides and the exit being in the opposite direction Demaxx was marching him.

She guided him away from the brightness of the outside world, into a small little hallway that led underground. Whenever he faltered in his step, she came close enough to graze the muzzle of her blaster against the back of his neck and that was motivation enough for Jazz to ignore the ache in his struts and keep pace.

They went through several gaping and dimly lit passages that looked abandoned save for the occasional storage unit pressed up against the wall until they arrived at a lift. It was old and creaky, smelling of damp rust like the rest of their surroundings and reminding the saboteur of the ones he’d seen in human mines. Jazz paused, turning to look at Demaxx with confusion. “You want me to get on that?

The glare she offered him was answer enough.

It took a few good thumps to the control panel for the thing to get moving and when it finally did, it shook and creaked with each turn of the gears and Jazz reached out to hold onto the railing for dear life as the floor slowly disappeared as they ascended. The bitlet squirmed and he resisted the urge to place a comforting hand over his ventrum; he didn’t want to bring Demaxx’s attention to the bitlet if he could help it.

But it seemed Demaxx was better at reading bots than he thought. Or maybe he was just sorely out of practice. “How far along is it?” She asked, voice impassive even as she gestured at the saboteur’s ventrum.

Jazz grimaced, glad that having his back to her let him hide his expressions. “About 11 quartexes.”

“And it still hasn’t come out?” She let out a small tut. “It’s going to be a runt, then.”

Before Jazz could even ponder her wording, the lift came to a stop in front of two silver doors and they slid open to reveal what looked suspiciously like an operating theater. It was dark and empty, squeaky clean if the strong antiseptic smell was anything to go by. Demaxx ushered him without a word, and as Jazz watched over his shoulder, manually began closing the doors behind them with one hand and then proceeding to push a small desk in front of them.

She subspaced the gun and opened up a panel on her arm, typing in a few glyphs and then suddenly the silver of her frame was being washing away by a small ripple that left blue and red colors in its wake. Jazz recognized those hues; they were the ones she’d been wearing at the marketsquare.

“Nifty tech you got there,” Jazz muttered.

Demaxx only nodded before stepping in close enough for their armor to brush, one hand wrapping around one of his shoulders. She leaned in to whisper at his audial. “We’re going to walk through this floor all the way to the other side. There are bots here, doctors and patients, and so I need you to smile and pretend like everything is alright.” Her voice lowered an octave. “If you attempt to alert anyone or try to send a communication, I’m going to shoot that thing inside of you first and let you feel it die before putting a bullet through your processor. Understood?”

Jazz swallowed roughly but his voice was firm as he spoke. “Crystal clear.”

“Good.” She gave him a harsh push forward and they made their way through the doors. The hallway was certainly animated, just as Demaxx had outlined, and Jazz’s instincts instantly screamed at him to look up and observe.

But he kept his helm down, staring at the floor with his hands on his ventrum being a pretext for avoiding optic contact. To the other bots in the vicinity, he was probably just a worried-looking carrier looking after his creation. And in a sense, he was.

The walk was briefer than Jazz anticipated, Demaxx shouldered into a door and pulled him inside, the noise instantly cutting off when the door hissed shut. With the threat of accidental interaction pass, the saboteur allowed himself to finally look up and he started a little upon noticing it was an ICU care room. A mech was currently occupying the only berth, tubes connected to every available crevice in his armor and monitors beeping softly around him. On a small desk beside the cot sat a small box and inside, a tiny crystal that reflected the light that spilled into the white room through the open door leading to a small balcony.

Jazz frowned, daring to look back at the femme. “Is he--?”

“I don’t know him,” Demaxx said crisply, “but I do know he’s a processor-dead husk who’s only still on life support because his bondmate refuses to accept he’s dead.” She took out the blaster once more and pointed it at Jazz. “We won’t be disturbed here.”

“This hardly looks like the place you wanna conduct a calm and quiet murder.”

Demaxx shrugged, “Your death won’t be taking place here.” She pressed the muzzle into the center of his back, urging him towards the open balcony doors. “It’s over there.”

A cold wave of dread passed over Jazz as he allowed himself to be herded, steps faltering slightly as Demaxx halted just a few feet shy of the balustrade’s doors. Immediately Jazz could hear the whizzing of air traffic and the strong wail of the wind blowing outside. The sun was bright and happy, a stark contrast to the atmosphere surrounding them.

Things clicked into place and Jazz froze. “You want me to jump?”

“Yes.”

Sparkbeat quickening, Jazz whispered, “why?”

A beat of stillness and then Demaxx replied, “Orders.” She grabbed his shoulder and began pulling him forth and Jazz tensed, heels digging into the floor as he vigorously shook his head.

“You don’t have to do this,” he pleaded, pushing against her strength with every single mote of his. “Please, you don’t have to do this!”

“Stop struggling,” she gritted and losing her patience, she shoved him hard enough to make him lose his balance and tip forward.

Jazz felt the pain before his frame had even hit the ground. He’d tried to turn mid-air, get the brunt of the impact on his side or even his back but his frame was tired, worn out from the activity of the past orns, and failed to respond.

The sickening crunch of his front hitting the floor made the saboteur flinch and he froze in place for a few astroseconds, fearful and hopeful at the same time. But then came the pain.

It started out as a small ache in Jazz’s lower back but as time ticked by, it spread to his ventrum and centered over Jazz’s belly with a harsh vengeance. He let out a gasping sob, visor flaring pure white as unfamiliar warnings popped up on his HUD.

“Oh, Primus...” He tried to get back up but his arms weren’t responding. They felt numb, cold, and Jazz wasn’t sure if it was a side effect of the pain or if he was locking up because of his mounting panic. He knew he was a pathetic mess, writhing on that floor as he tried to push himself off and onto his back, to get the pressure off of the bitlet that was now squirming and sending his pulses of shock and pain that stuttered out in between each glyph.

It felt like an eternity but he guessed it was only a few astrokliks before strong hands were rolling him over and patting his belly, the touch unfamiliar and unwelcome.

“Slag,” Demaxx hissed, scanning Jazz as she kneeled beside him. “I told you to stop moving.”

Jazz wanted to scream at her, to tear into her and rip that worried look on her face off with his bare hands. But the pain was too much; he couldn’t talk, couldn’t even think clearly and so he settled for shuttering his optics and focusing on the open bond between him and the bitlet.

Hurt. That was the only thing that Jazz could get from it and he felt that panic in him bloom into full on terror.

He was going to lose his bitlet. Right there, right now. He was going to lose the only thing that’d given him the courage to keep on fighting in spite of all the slag he’d been dealt. The only thing he loved more than he’d ever loved himself.

Gasping through the pain, he flopped onto his side and curled into himself, wrapping his arms around his belly and wishing with all his might that he could do the entire orn over. He wouldn’t have woken up from recharge so early. He would’ve eaten the left-over rust sticks instead of worrying about whether or not they’d lost their flavor. He would’ve let Soundwave use that ridiculously good-smelling polish of his instead of the bland one Odeon had given him.

He would’ve given into Soundwave’s furtive little touches and suggestive smiles, done so much more than kiss those lips briefly and warning him to behave.

He wouldn’t have ever left the safety of Soundwave’s arms.

“Hey, stay with me.” Demaxx said, voice breaking on the last syllable. She snapped her fingers in front of his face and gave his shoulder a shake. “Don’t you dare die!”

The irony of the phrase wasn’t lost on the saboteur, even as he lay there in pain. The warmth of the femme’s frame disappeared for a few seconds and distantly, Jazz heard the sound of clattering sound before it returned and suddenly, Demaxx was trying desperately to unfurl one of his arms from his torso.

“Gimme your slagging arm,” she grunted, pulling hard enough for Jazz’s shoulder to creak.

A sharp prick later and a cool sensation spread through Jazz’s body, like a rush of coolant in his overheated frame.

With time, the pain slowly began to subside and an odd sense of calm brought the sbaotuer’s surroundings back into focus. Demaxx let out a sigh of relief when his visor flickered online with its usual blue hue and focused on her.

“Slag, you scared me for a second there.”

It took Jazz a moment to get his vocalizer back online. “Thought...you wanted me...dead.”

Demaxx grimaced, “That’s the plan. But you dying on this floor wasn’t it.” There was a flicker of something else in her optics but it only lasted a second before she blinked and it was replaced by the bitter persona she’d been using during their whole charade. Her hands were on his frame again, pulling him up. “Now up you get.”

Jazz frowned, “Who’d you lose?”

The femme paused, turning to look at him. “What?”

“Who’d you lose?”

Demaxx stared at him intently for a moment, looking unsure of whether she should speak or simply throw the saboteur back on the floor. But eventually something inside her won out and she shrugged. “That’s not important.”

“It is if it’s enough to get you to kill me.”

“Be quiet.”

“No,” Jazz said, rising up into an uncomfortable sitting position. “You gotta tell me.” He offered a weak smile. “Ease my mind before you kill me.” He was surprised at how calm his voice was. Whatever she’d injected into him, it was doing wonders on his systems. Just moments before he’d wanted to kill her.

Face pinching slightly, Demaxx sat back on her heels and shook her helm. “My entire team got shot to smithereens because of my commander’s incompetence. I fought for a court-marshal and only three mechs of Autobot even bothered showing up.” Her upper lip curled into a sneer. “Two of them were stand-ins. One was Prowl.”

At the mention of the Praxian, Jazz’s visor brightened. Prowl had never mentioned this before.

“The hearing lasted five nanokliks,” Demaxx spat. “And the verdict? My commander got promoted to another platoon in a different city. And I was left to pick up the pieces on my own.” She closed her optics, biting her lip. “And I had no choice but to do so. I fought the rest of the war to its bitter end. I was on Pova when the message about the armistice was broadcast and when I returned, I’d expected to be home. But it wasn’t.” She swallowed roughly. “It never could be. Not with murderers ruling our government.”

“We’re all killers.” Jazz said, voice firm. “Every single one of us.” His lips pursed. “Even Reverb.”

Demaxx’s optics flashed at his words, confusion in her optics but she blinked it away. “I know that. I know that Reverb’s plan is flawed in more ways than one because violence only begets violence, no matter how justified we think it is.” She rose to her feet, stance standoffish. “But Reverb doesn’t hide behind hypocrisy. He doesn’t parade himself around like the Prime, believing that just because some shiny little rock chose him to be some mystical guide, he suddenly is the one who can tell other bots what to do. He’s not crazy like that former gladiator you all are so keen to forget began the stupid war that cost us everything!”

She shook her helm. “Perhaps Reverb’s vision is nothing more than a reversal of our roles but you know what? At the very least we won’t be in the gutters, afraid and knowing we’re going to die. I won’t be the one being stepped on anymore...and that’s enough.”

Silence met her words for Jazz couldn’t find anything to say to her. He could tell, only from hearing her speak, that she was invested completely in this.

There was no going back for her.

Jazz allowed her to hoist him onto his feet, using her as a crutch before letting her go and standing on his own. The bright balcony beckoned cruelly, a peaceful corner of the universe turned into something macabre.

He turned to look at her. “What’s the story going to be? Y’know, with you throwing me off and stuff?”

The femme replied, “Depression is common in carriers. It won’t be surprising to hear one threw themselves to their death; it’s happened more than a couple times.”

Jazz’s hands instinctually went to his belly. “Can I have a moment? To say my goodbyes?”

“No.” Demaxx shoved him forward again and this time, Jazz kept his balance and walked outside. The sun was warm on his plating, a stark contrast to the cool interior he’d been subjected to for the past few orns. He liked the way it tickled his armor, warming his derma and making a juxtapositional sense of calm invade him.

But of course, the calm was only skin deep. His hands shook as he grabbed the railing lining the edge, making the thin metal rattle. From his vantage point, they were probably a couple hundred kliks up from the ground. If Jazz fell, he knew there would be no recognizing him when he finally landed.

He’d simply turn into a blue stain on the floor.

The thought made him nauseous. What would Soundwave think? Would he recognize him if he saw? Hopefully he wouldn’t have to but if he did...Jazz hoped that at the very least he wasn’t recognizable enough so that it would tarnish whatever memories the telepath had of him. He preferred being remembered in more uplifting circumstances.

Like as he ate a rust stick. Or when he was mid-overload.

Yeah, those sounded infinitely better.

“I hope you get your wish,” he said, giving Demaxx one final glance over his shoulder. “I honestly do.”

Demaxx’s optics widened slightly in surprise. She glanced away for a second before looking at him with a disturbingly sympathetic look but offered nothing else in turn.

Jazz cycled a ventilation, grip on the railing tightening. He’d failed. And this was his punishment.

“On three,” Demaxx said.

_One._

_Two._

_And—_

“STOP!” An audial-splitting screech rang through the silence like a well-aimed bullet, causing Demaxx to press her hands against her helm in surprise and Jazz to stumble onto his knees. A familiar black shadow slipped through the femme’s legs and came up to Jazz and the saboteur could do nothing more than blink stupidly.

“Rav?” He asked, one hand falling from the railing to press against the tip of the feline’s snout. She bumped against it in greeting, letting him know that she wasn’t just a hopeful hallucination.

“You idiot,” she admonished, but a purr rumbled in her chest and Jazz leaned forward to wrap his arms around her neck in a tight hug.

“You’re back! I’m so sorry for everything.” Jazz blurted out, shaking his helm as he pressed his cheek against the top of her helm. “You were right but then you left and it got me thinking and then me and Sounders just thought and then we—.”

“Details aren’t necessary,” the feline said, stepping back from the hug. “I can smell it on you.”

Jazz’s derma took on a faint blue tinge of embarrassment but the happy moment only lasted moments before Demaxx was looming in the doorway, the blaster held securely in hand as she pointed it at the feline. “Who the fuck are you?”

Ravage hissed, back arching and plating flaring as she confronted the femme. “I could ask the same of you.” Her tail whipped through the air, the tip caressing Jazz’s leg.

All of a sudden Demaxx’s helm snapped back in realization. “Wait...you’re one of that ‘Con’s symbionts, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Ravage purred darkly. “And he’s on his way up as we speak.”

Pure fear flashed across Demaxx’s gaze and she whipped her helm around to glance to and fro at the room behind her over her shoulder. In that same instant, Ravage turned to look at Jazz and an apologetic glimmer flashed in her ruby optics before they narrowed and she harshly whispered, “run.”

Before Jazz even had time to say anything, Ravage launched herself at Demaxx and the two of them fell back into the room in a loud tangle of flailing limbs. Jazz didn’t have to be told twice. He scrambled onto his feet and ran into the room, pushing past what little furniture there was and heading for the exit.

The sound of tearing metal and screams of pain indicated that Ravage was winning and Jazz felt relief when his hand pressed up against the matrixpad. They were going to make it.

When the door opened, he glanced back to look at Ravage. The feline was pressing Demaxx’s face into the ground with her front paws, back legs scratching at the femme’s exposed torso with enough force to create long gashes and draw Energon.

Jazz screamed, “Rav! Come on, let’s get out of here!”

Ravage glanced up for a brief moment, optics burning from the fight. “Go!” She screamed, grunting as she put all her wright into holding Demaxx down. “I’m right behind you!”

Jazz hesitated, torn between his two options. He didn’t want to turn his back on Ravage, not so soon after he’d just gotten her back. But he knew that if he stayed, he’d only become a burden and it was best to follow the orders she’d given him.

So he ran.

He took one, two steps before the sound of a gunshot echoed through the entire area and a Spark-splitting yowl of pain followed not long after. Jazz froze, optics wide as he turned to look over his shoulder. Everyone in the hall was quiet, looking around with terror in their optics but only Jazz knew where his optics should be.

“Come on, Ravage. _Come on_ ,” he breathed into the silence. But there was no ebony feline running out to join him.

Jazz’s Spark twisted as he took a few steps back, waiting and hoping for Ravage to appear. But when she didn’t, he knew he couldn’t wait. He whipped his helm around and ran for his life.

 

~~~

 

“Announcing the Representative of Uraya, Reverb and his esteemed bondmate, Rethelia! And their guest!”

Optimus glanced away from the one-sided conversation he’d been forced into with another representative, blue optics losing their listlessness to focus on the brightly colored trio that were now descending the stairs and making their way towards the main gathering floor.

The warm orange lights danced off the two bot’s shining frames and even from his distance, the Prime could see bits of jewels twinkling in the light as if they’d dusted some crystals into their paint.

A bit ostentatious but Optimus quickly reminded himself who he was about to deal with.

“Representative,” Optimus said with as much kindness as he could muster, reaching out and clasping hands with the green mech. “A pleasure to see you.”

“Likewise,” Argyrus purred and he gave their hands a firm shake before pulling back to reveal the two other bots that had accompanied them. One, was the femme that Optimus remembered seeing at Bluestreak and Thundercracker’s bonding ceremony and she gave a small tilt of her helm in greeting.

The other was a mech, bright red with an orange visor, and he was smiling with a familiarity that struck Optimus as odd. He reached out to clasp hands and when Optimus reciprocated the gesture, his grip was firm and courteous.

“Reverb,” he said, voice a smooth baritone. “And may I say it is an absolute honor, Prime.”

“Please,” Optimus said. “Optimus will do just fine.”

Reverb’s helm gave an inquisitive little tilt. “Ah, humility. Certainly not a trait you see in leaders very often.” He waved a hand and chuckled. “It’s refreshing.”

“Thank you,” Optimus said, caught a little off guard by the flattery. It sounded genuine, which was a direct contradiction to the manner in which Argyrus spoke to him during Assembly meetings. The green mech always carried an air of superiority over himself and Optimus wasn’t unaware of the way he jumped at every opportunity to saccharinely correct him or remind him of any blunders he’d made in the past.

He wasn’t sure what to make of Reverb but at the very least the possibility of maliciousness was absent.

Remembering his job as a host, Optimus gestured at the table behind him that littered with an array of drinks and sweets, all of the finest caliber. “Help yourself to whatever you like.” He went for two cubes of high grades, and held it out to them. “High Grade?”

“Thank you.” It was Rethelia who spoke this time and she grabbed the cubes with her painted lips parted into a smile that was painstakingly similar to Reverb’s. Optimus observed the way she handed the red mech a cube, the little nod between them and the warmth in their optics when they looked at one another and he surmised that they must be siblings.

Someone behind them called out Argyrus’ name and all three turned to look at the silver frame of Megatron stalking his way towards them, smile looking anything but hospitable.

“Megatron,” Argyrus said, and he made no effort to hide the dislike in his tone. Rethelia gave him a nudge, whispering for him to behave. Reverb was oddly silent, optics sweeping up and down of the former gladiator with an unreadable expression on his face. Megatron paid him no heed, all of his attention focused on the Representative.

“So,” Megatron drawled, placing a hand on Argyrus’ shoulder with a little more force than necessary. “Finally found yourself capable of stepping outside of your city to come and see us, Argyrus?”

A polished hand snapped the scarred one off a green shoulder. “Just what are you implying, Megatron?”

“Nothing, my dear Representative. Just an observation.” Red optics connected with Optimus over the green mech’s head and the Prime stiffened, internally debating on whether he should play along or admonish Megatron for his offstandish nature.

But any words died in his throat when he caught sight of Reverb looking at him from the corner of his optics, orange visor bright and intent, a knowing smile lingering underneath the tinted glass.

It lasted for a brief moment, the brief exchange broken when Argyrus cursed something out loud and stormed past them, dragging Rethelia by her wrist. The femme gave both of them an apologetic smile and followed suit, carefully balancing the cube in her free hand. She gave Reverb’s shoulder a small nudge, a silent urging for him to follow.

Reverb cycled a ventilation and stepped forward, brushing past Optimus to grab a rust stick before stepping back. “See you around,” he said, sticking the treat into his mouth and turning to follow the two other bots he’d arrived with.

Megatron watched them go for a moment before taking up his place beside Optimus, glancing down at him with a frown.

“They came alone."

Optimus grimaced, thankful that his battlemask hid his expression. “Yes, they did.”

“It’s been almost six quartexes without any communication. What makes you so sure he’s still alive?”

The Prime didn’t respond, engine rumbling. When he did, it was with an uneasy edge to his voice. “A reliable source.”

Megatron’s frame hummed. “Still don’t trust me with that information? Optimus...”

Optimus shook his helm. “We shouldn’t be talking here,” he said, casting a cursory glance around them. The other guests were keeping their distance, too enthralled in the food and conversation to really pay them any heed, but war-time paranoia was a hard thing to shake.

“Then when?” Megatron gritted out.

“Soon,” Optimus promised, turning to look up at the silver mech. He hoped his optics relayed his sincerity and placed a hand over the former warlord’s chest. “I promise.”

“You and your promises,” Megatron grumbled, but it lacked the expected animosity. Red optics narrowed, he reached back to grab a cube of Energon and gave it a loud chug, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand once he finished. Optimus did the same, pushing back the feeling of exposure that always accompanied when he took his mask off. Already he could feel a few curious stares being aimed in his direction and he shuttered his optics, trying to focus on anything but the unwanted but unavoidable scrutiny.

He didn’t taste the blue liquid as he drank, far too focused on the thoughts racing through his processor. He’d expected to be reunited with Jazz because Prowl assured him that statistically, the saboteur would have found some way of getting onto the roster of mechs set to accompany the Urayan representative. Now, Optimus knows he should have known better than to trust in that explanation. Eons ago Jazz had proven to be an outlier; not in the traditional sense, of course, but more so in his exceptional capability of sneaking around the former tactician’s calculations, bringing in variables that no one could have been capable of anticipating.

Jazz’s carrying state for example, hadn’t been taken into consideration. Perhaps Optimus should have gone to Prowl and told him, see if the numbers and possibilities would have changed. But he never found the will to do so. It still hadn’t completely sunk into his processor that was reality, finding it still so bizarre and completely out of character.

The sabotuer had always been good around younglings, the few that had found themselves at the mercy of the Autobot relief efforts, smiling and joking and putting their tiny little Sparks at ease despite their dire circumstances. Many bots whispered about how he just had a knack for those things, that it was such a pity he probably wouldn’t live past the war to actually be a creator himself.

But Optimus had seen Jazz’s face when the younglings were collected, how the light in his visor dimmed and the smile on his face fell as if a mask had suddenly been removed. It was just one of the saboteur’s many acquired skills being put to use; like a tool brought out to work and then put away when it wasn’t needed.

Something about Soundwave’s recollection of Jazz’s choice to remain a carrier had sounded off to Optimus since he’d first heard it, memories of the war reminding him just how much Jazz had shied away from the very notion of creations. But it’d been Soundwave who’d told him. Soundwave, the only mech who’s honesty Optimus had never had reason to doubt.

He sighed, reaching up to rub his face with his free hand. Was there perhaps an inkling of a possibility that trust could have been misplaced?

“Optimus,” Megatron’s address snapped him out of his nightmarish thoughts, prompting him to look up and adopt the look of cordial affability his position as host demanded. Across the room, Optimus saw Riot standing rather stiffly, surrounded by two of his officers and urging Optimus to come to him with a terse wave of his hand. His optics were burning a molten gold and his doorwings were hiked high upon his back, tips twitching erratically enough that Optimus could see it even from such a distance.

Something was wrong.

“Can you handle things while I’m gone?” Optimus asked, glancing up at Megatron as he handed the former warlord his half-empty cube.

Megatron huffed, “I can handle the stroking of a few overzealous politicians’ egos for a few nanokliks.” He gestured for Optimus to go with a jerk of his chin. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“Thank you,” Optimus replied, truly gratuitous.

Riot was whispering harshly to one of his subordinates, one of his hands curled into a fist and slamming into the open palm of his other one.

“Riot?” Optimus asked, stepping in close so that his purple cloak blocked the comissioner’s frame from the view of the room. “What is the matter?”

“Give me a klik,” the silver Praxian grunted, pressing a finger to his audial and turning his helm away. His optics shuttered a few times, indicating he was sending a message, and then whipped his helm around to look at the looming figure of the Prime. “We’re got a situation.”

Optimus said nothing for a moment. Then he proceeded to place a hand on the Praxian’s shoulder, leading him towards the entrance of the building. Once outside, Riot’s subordinates closed the doors and staked a small perimeter, glancing around to make sure the two mechs were given some privacy. The planet sun had begun to set and the outside area, which had been closed off for the event, was dimly lit and eerily silent.

“There’s been a shooting a few blocks away,” Riot began, arms crossing tersely over his chest as he began a hurried pacing in between them. “With multiple causalities.”

Optimus felt like his Energon had grown cold in his fuel lines and it took him a moment to find the words to speak. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. But I’ve got to head back to the precinct to help coordinate the response units and rescue efforts.” He sighed. “I know this puts a hamper on your social event but I have two of my best men coming over to relieve me. They should arrive in a couple astroseconds and I assure you that they are fully capable of making sure you and your guests remain under the best protection.”

“Of course,” Optimus replied, nodding. “Whatever needs to be done, Riot. A simple gala is nothing in the face of such an emergency.”

Riot nodded, relief evident in the way his frame untensed. “Thank you for understanding.” Something on his forearm beeped and he cursed, beginning to walk backwards down the street. “Enjoy your evening,” he said and then he was transforming and redlining it down the street.

The two mechs on either side of Optimus shifted uneasily but stood at the ready when the Prime turned to look at them. “Are you certain you are not needed elsewhere?”

One of the two, a mech with green optics and red biolights, shook his helm. “No, sir. Not at the moment.”

Now it was Optimus’ turn to sigh. “Please keep me apprised of any new developments,” he said softly, brushing past them to re-enter the building. He felt sick upon hearing the soft music spilling through the hidden speakers and the gentle buzzing of conversation that was broken by the occasional guffaw or chuckle. A few blocks away, bots were dying and here he was, watching bots sip on expensive High Grade and chew on sweets that were once reserved solely for high caste bots. Granted, the variety of frame types in the room destroyed any notion of their former society’s functionalism but it still left a bad taste in Optimus mouth.

Megatron had moved away from his position at the refreshment table, standing in conversation with Starscream and Jetfire at a small standing table. He didn’t look pleased to be there but at an event like this, Optimus wasn’t really expecting much else.

A small tap on his shoulder brought him out of his musings and he nearly jumped upon noticing the red mech standing beside his elbow. He caught himself and nodded, politely, pivoting his torso to face the bot.

“Reverb,” he greeted, thankful he remembered the mech’s name. Blue optics glanced around the room, looking to find the reason that the mech had chosen to stray from Argyrus and his mate, but the green Representative and his blue partner were nowhere to be found.

“You seem a bit jumpy,” Reverb drawled over the rim of his blue cube bringing the Prime’s attention back. He took a sip, sighing. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” Optimus lied, nodding once. “Everything is fine.”

Reverb swirled his drink around for a few moments, looking down at it with something akin to disinterest before turning to look at the assembled guests. “Lovely party,” he said, turning his helm slowly to look at Optimus with a smile playing on his lips. “I’m enjoying myself quite a bit.”

“I’m glad,” Optimus replied, ejecting as much warmth as he could into his tone. “The main reason for this gathering was to promote good social ties between all members of the Assembly.” He paused then added, “And hopefully, of all mechs on Cybertron.”

A red visor flashed. “Pretty big expectations for a party.” Reverb chuckled, “especially one where a mech can only get in with a fancy little invite.”

Something about the mech’s tone rubbed Optimus the wrong way; his words were a little inflammatory but nothing more than an astute observation and his tone was playful.

Maybe it was the way he delivered it. The subtle head tilt Optimus had learned from watching Jazz that indicated the visored mech was rolling his optics behind that tinted piece of glass. The smile that was more accusatory than remitting.

Or perhaps it was simply the mech’s presence.

He was smaller than Optimus, by a head or so, but what he lacked in height he made up with in size. He was well armored, the plexiglass on his chest shining with a strength that spoke of modification, and the Prime surmised that if asked to demonstrate his prowess, the red mech would probably be able to do so with little problem. But he wasn’t military. He lacked the instinctive trait of deferentiality. Other bots tended to hover on his periphery, the Autobots because they still saw him as their former leader and the Decepticons because they perceived him as the bot they used to have orders to shoot on sight.

But Reverb talked to him with surprising ease. And his previous comment was the kind he would expect from a trusted subordinate openly but subtly calling him out on a decision.

Like Jazz.

Reverb looked nothing like his former SpecOps commander, however. Whereas Jazz was all smooth curves and flexibility, the red mech was boxy and quadratic.

Almost like Sound--

“I can tell you’re busy,” Reverb said suddenly and Optimus remembered that he hadn’t answered the mech’s question. But he didn’t get the opportunity to even offer an apology because the red mech was finishing his cube and fixing him with a dazzling smile. “So, I shall make my leave.”

“Wait--”

Reverb held up a hand, shaking his helm. “I understand. A leader’s work is never done. I can’t even begin to fathom what you must be thinking.” He paused, voice softening. “Or who you must be missing.” With a small dip of his helm, the mech stepped forth and disappeared into the throng of bots, leaving Optimus standing dumfounded with an odd feeling in his Spark.

His optics caught Megatron’s across the room and the silver mech was tilting his helm to the side, optic ridges furrowed in silent questioning. The Lord High Protector was absent of company, former second and his conjunx nowhere to be seen.

Optimus shuttered his optics and pulled his facemask back in place, hiding what he knew must have been an expression of blatant incredulity. He made sure to stand tall and steady as he remingled with the crowd, greeting those who looked at him until he finally made his way over to his bondmate.

It took Megatron putting his hand over Optimus for the Prime to realize he was shaking. Those black fingers, which had once tried to pry the casing off from over his own Spark chamber, curled around his with a learning tenderness.

“Are you alright?”

No, Optimus thought sadly. But he couldn’t tell Megatron that. Not yet. There was still so much Optimus didn’t understand and plenty of things of he’d come to accept he’d lost control over. However there was one thing he refused to accept.

One bot he could not believe to have failed.

His hand twisted in Megatron’s grasp, fitting in a way that they could both grip onto the other.

“Do you know what’s become of Soundwave?”

“Soundwave?” Megatron echoed, surprised by sudden mention of his former third. He frowned, thinking. “Last I heard he’d moved out of his apartment in Crystal City. But other than that, he’s been flying completely under my radar.”

Red optics narrowing, Megatron asked, “But you already know this. So why ask?”

Optimus hesitated. Only for a second.

“Do you trust him?”

Megatron’s hand left Optimus to grip the edge of the table, fingers curling into the thin metal not built to withstand the onslaught of a warrior’s grip. “What’s the meaning of these questions, Optimus?”

“Just answer the question, Megatron.”

The former warlord wasn’t fond of being ordered about. But something in the conversation struck his fancy and he complied with much less effort than Optimus anticipated. “No.”

Voice surprisingly steady, the Prime asked, “Why?”

“Once, I would have stated that he was the only mech I would have trusted with my life. And I would not be lying because it’d be true.” Megatron glanced away. “But I ended up betraying his trust when I agreed to the armistice that ended the war.”

A blue helm tilted forwards, morbidly intrigued. “Was he against the notion of peace?”

“What?” Megatron whipped his helm back to stare at Optimus in shock. “No, of course not. Of all the mechs I had under my command, he was perhaps the only one who never lost sight of what the Decepticon cause had truly been about at its core. He held onto that belief, fought for it. Killed for it. The armistice came as a pleasant surprise for him...until he found out why I agreed.”

Red optics narrowed in displeasure and Optimus bit back words of apology.

Megatron sighed. “Soundwave is not a mech who offers his trust and loyalty so willingly. But once you earn it, it is perhaps, one of the most powerful assets you’ll ever hope to have. On and off a battlefield. It’s a pact that’s not so easily broken.” One side of the former warlord’s lips twisted up into a smile. “So fret not, Optimus. Whatever you think he owes you, he will come through. I doubt you’re capable of doing anything to ever make him turn his back on whatever notion you two find yourselves embroiled with.”

Optimus wanted to object to the words, to shake his helm and deny any affiliation with the telepath. But he knew it would end up being useless. Despite his reputation, Megatron was more than capable of snooping out a lie and even attempting to fabricate one would be most unwelcome.

So, he simply gave a small nod but the small admission did nothing to ease the unrest curdling in his Spark.

 

~~~.

 

Jazz’s entire frame hurt. His arms, legs, struts, slag even the tip of his fingers ached. Nothing was safe from the onslaught of pain as he stumbled and wobbled down the small alleyway, holding onto the wall with one hand for balance while the other kept itself firmly welded over his ventrum.

The bitlet had grown quiet after Jazz had made his escape and the saboteur couldn’t fathom a guess as to why. When he’d fallen, it’d been in terrible pain and after Demaxx had injected him with what he could only surmise had been some sort of tranquilizer, it’d slowly grown to become more and more still...until Jazz could no longer feel it moving.

He’d feared the worst. But a quick internal scan revealed that the bitlet was still alive. It just seemed to be in some odd sort of stasis.

Primus knows if it that was good or bad.

Jazz didn’t like to think too much about it. Not with how much pain he was in. Gasping softly, he leaned his entire side against the wall he’d been walking against, pressing his face to the cool metal and slowly letting himself fall to his knees. Spinal struts squeaked in protest as he settled himself into a makeshift sitting position, aft on the floor and back pressed against the wall.

His chin pressed against his chest, he shuttered his optics and wrapped his arms around his belly, murmuring soft nothings as he took the opportunity to finally rest.

There was no way to know if someone was still after him. There probably was but Jazz knew that if he kept on running, something inside of him was going to break and he wasn’t too keen on putting himself or the bitlet in any more danger than they had to be. He couldn’t afford to; not after Ravage had gone and sacrificed herself for them.

Memories of the feline made the saboteur’s optics sting and he reached up to hastily wipe at them, refusing to give into his emotions. This wasn’t the first time he’d lost a friend. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen someone he cared about die in a meaningless and unfair way.

He’d practically invented the SpecOps recovery method on getting over these kinds of things. The trick was to skip over the first four stages of grief by refusing to let the pain sink in and then diving headfirst into the acceptance stage.

No mess, no fuss.

A single tear rolled out from underneath his visor and he let out shaky sigh, shuttering his optics and leaning his hem back to rest it against the wall. He tried to swallow down the lump in his intakes but his ventilations had grown too unsteady and before he could even attempt to do so again, a soft broken sob escaped his lips and then the floodgates became well and open.

Who the slag was he trying to kid? It hurt.

Ravage hadn’t been some nobody. She hadn’t been an agent that Jazz had taken the precaution of not getting close to for the sake of the operation and their overall mission.

She’d been a friend.

 _His_ friend and now she was gone.

Jazz gritted his dentae and let his helm fall into his hands, pressing his palms hard enough under his optics to momentarily see stars.

Everything was a mess now. A horrible terrible mess that Jazz had lost all control over. He’d thought he could keep himself one step ahead of everyone; of Argyrus, Reverb, Soundwave...but he’d gone and broken his first and only rule, of keeping the mission as a priority, spat and stomped on it til it turned to dust and all that was left for him to follow were the unreliable sensations in his Spark.

They’d led him towards Soundwave, urging silently and snapping his attention away from the objective of his mission. It was thanks to them that he’d even agreed to keep the bitlet, to see it through to emergence and be the one who would nurture and care for it until it would be ready to fly off on its own.

He sucked in a ventilation, hating how broken and keening his voice sounded. How pathetic he must look, carrying and scuffed and curled into a ball in some dirty corner, completely unaware of what he should do.

The degenerate side of him reveled and wasted no time in reminding him of just how much he deserved it.

Shifting in position slightly when a particularly bad cramp sprouted in his lower back, Jazz tried to get more comfortable but that proved to be a luxury he no longer had access to. As soon as he moved his leg, a sharp searing pain slit through his ventrum and he hissed softly, curling into himself in hopes of relieving the pain.

It did but only slightly.

Five whole kliks passed before the pain subsided enough for him to think clearly and he took the opportunity to check himself again, to make sure that there wasn’t anything dangerous internally that could possibly compromise him. Apart from a few superficious bruises, he seemed fine.

As did the bitlet, though the lack of movement was upsetting to Jazz.

Shaking his helm, he patted the small bulge with his palm, feeling a little awkward and foolish.

“You need to keep up,” he said, voice as soft as it would go. “I can’t afford to slow down. If you wanna get the chance to see the world, you gotta be strong.”

No movement appeared underneath Jazz’s fingers and the silver mech bit his lip, gnawing on the derma until it was plush and swollen. “You’ve got no other choice.”

Slowly, Jazz lifted his helm to guage his surroundings, visor brightening and audials turned up to their highest sensitivity. He could hear the buzz of activity around the corner, of the vehicles and panicking pedestrians and the blaring sounds of emergency sirens. The authorities were no doubt making their way to the institute; someone must’ve called them when Demaxx began firing.

Jazz had made his escape down the way that Demaxx had originally brought him up in, and it had thankfully allowed him to sneak past the trickle of gathering bots before a full-on barricade could be established and take refuge in a small alley a klik or so away.

A part of him wondered if that had been the best option. First responders, even Enforcers, tended to have medical equipment at the ready and if he’d wandered over to them, they probably would have scanned him and tended to his injuries without fuss.

But Makeshift was still at large and Demaxx, despite Jazz’s strong wishing for the latter, had probably found some way to escape. The shifter wasn’t dead, of that Jazz was absolutely sure. When he’d attacked, he’d gone for Makeshift’s transformation cog and managed to injure it enough to momentarily disrupt the shifter’s capabilities if his scream had been anything to go by. But Makeshift wasn’t dangerous just because of his powers. He was a spy, and just like any other spy, he had his way for sneaking around and getting his job done in spite of the odds.

Right now, it seemed that job was to kill him and Jazz refused to put himself in the same vicinity as the shifter. 

His internal comm gave a small ping, indicating of an incoming transmission. Jazz checked the caller and immediately rejected it, putting a temporary block on the signal to keep them from even attempting to track his signal.

Then he forced his pounding Spark to relax, pushing down the longing and yearning simmering deep within.

Because no matter how desperately Jazz wanted to, he couldn’t go back to Soundwave either. Not after what happened to Ravage. And most definitely not after he’d gone and blown his cover. The chance that Reverb or Makeshift had sent someone to tail the telepath was high and Jazz would only be walking into their hands if he even tried to contact Soundwave.

He hated how wrong it felt to sever such an important tie. What would Soundwave think if he learned that his favorite symbiont had died and Jazz had done absolutely nothing?

Jazz didn’t even want to think about it.

He couldn’t, really, because it no longer mattered. It was finally time to set things right. Too long he’d put aside the mission for the sake of his Spark and after today’s events, Jazz knew that he could no longer turn a blind optic to the state of affairs plaguing the planet.

Though his tertiary guidance systems were scrap, he knew his way around Iacon moderately well and this place he was in was but a joor away from the precinct Prowl was stationed at. But he couldn’t get there on his own. He needed a plan. Gritting his dentae, he staggered to his feet, ignoring the pain and focusing now on his objective.

Get to the precinct. Tell Prowl everything.

Everything else would smooth itself out from there. Ratchet would be called and Jazz would surrender himself to the former CMO’s medical expertise. The bitlet would be fine so long as he managed to do that.

It was a painfully slow process making his way out of the alley but when Jazz stood at the mouth of the small passageway and stared at the throng on activity on the streets before him, he knew he couldn’t let the pain hinder his progress. He sought out for the familiar insignia of the Enforcers, optics narrowed as he kept his optics open for any sign of hostilities.

The sound of flight engines drew his attention to the lower half of the street and his head perked up upon recognizing the familiar silver gleam of wings and searing golden optics and an idea lit up in his mind. Carefully, he edged his way through the frantic crowd, calling on every ounce of strength to keep his balancing gyros in check.

Someone elbowed him and nearly sent him sprawling on his aft but thankfully, Jazz managed to remain upright until he crept up behind the Seeker.

Jazz couldn’t remember his name so all he could do was wait around like some lost youngling as he ordered about an EMT, telling them to move their triage area to make way for the special units teams. The EMT gave a terse nod and ran off and the Seeker stood in place, making sure everything was in order. Jazz shifted slightly and the movement made the Seeker whirl around, optics widening as he caught sight of the saboteur.

“What the frag--?” Surprise quickly shifted into brief recognition not a nanosecond later. “Wait. You’re the carrier mech from before, aren’t you?” Gold optics glanced down, taking in the saboteur’s condition with a single sweeping glance. His optic ridges furrowed in concern. “You look like slag.”

Jazz ignored the quip, shaking his helm. “I need help,” he said quickly. “Badly.”

The Seeker gave their surroundings a quick scan before gently placing a hand on Jazz’s shoulder and leading him towards the medical triage a few kliks away. A mech with medical markings glanced up from where he’d been consoling a mech with a silver mesh blanket wrapped around his shoulders and walked towards them.

Before he event had the chance to ask what was wrong, Jazz reached over and gripped the Seeker’s hand, forcing the silver mech to glance down at him.

“You can’t leave me alone,” he hissed, patience and courage waning.

“Mech, I’m not a medic...” the Seeker began, shifting his gaze between Jazz and the waiting EMT. “I can’t help you.” He tried to pry his hand from Jazz’s grip but the saboteur was relentless.

“Get me to the precinct,” Jazz said. “I need to see the commissioner.”

That made the Seeker pause. His gold optics flared bright before narrowing into slits. “Give us a second,” he waved the EMT off, who nodded and returned to his work. Alone, the Seeker pivoted his torso to face Jazz. “What business do you have with the commissioner?”

“He’s a friend,” Jazz explained. “He should be expecting me.”

The Seeker looked ready to argue but a sharp pain had Jazz nearly falling to his knees, his grip on the flier’s hand the only thing keeping him up as he curled an arm over his ventrum and counted through the pain.

A moment of silence passed between them before the Seeker cursed under his breath. “Where’s your mate, mech? The tall blue guy that was following you around before?”

“Gone,” Jazz gritted out, lifting his helm to look at the silver mech. He let the implications lie.

“Oh.” Gold optics glimmered with sympathy. “So you don’t have anybody, then?”

“No.”

“...fine.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, the Seeker let out a sigh. “Probably gonna lose my badge for this but what the slag, right? Come on.” He led Jazz through the crowd towards a parked shuttle, helping him into the backseat before cramming into the front.

Jazz let out a sigh of relief as they began to drive away, closing his optics and pressing his cheek against the cool glass of the door beside him. He noticed the Seeker looking at him through the rearview glass, gold optics narrowed in concern.

“Got a designation, mech?”

Jazz hesitated. “Hax,” he muttered, unwilling to use his alias. Though his instincts weren’t screaming at him about the Seeker, he wasn’t too keen on opening up. His current actions were a result of desperation, not trust.

“Hax...” The Seeker offered a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his optics. “I’m Silverwing.”

They made a turn after passing a barricade, Silverwing flashing his badge before let through, and Jazz’s Sparkbeat sped up as the scenery became strikingly familiar. The large building that Jazz was aiming for gleamed against the darkening sky, majestic and beautiful if Jazz ever had anything to say about it.

When they parked in front of the building, Jazz was all but scrambling to get out, ignoring Silverwing’s attempts to help and focused solely on getting to the entrance. The Seeker, despite his reluctant kindness, was no longer important.

“Hey!” Silverwing ran to get the door before Jazz did, scanning his badge and holding it open for the saboteur. Jazz gave him a small nod of thanks before limping his way through. Inside was a mech conducting security scans and he walked around his desk to stand in front of Jazz, blocking his way into the main hall of the precinct.

“Registration,” he drawled, hand out.

“Linux, don’t worry, he’s with me.” Silverwing walked up behind Jazz, all smiles. “He’s helping me out on that breaking and entering from a couple orns ago.”

Linux huffed. “Ain’t gonna bend the rules for you, Silverwing. All guests must be signed in.”

“Come on, mech. I really need to get this done. Riot’s expecting me back in the field for crowd and damage control.”

Something in the mech’s tone seemed to get through the other bot and Linux cycled a heavy ventilation, stepping aside and saying nothing. Silverwing offered some hurried thanks before herding Jazz inside and stopping at a small desk on the outskirts of the busy looking office-space. Comms were ringing, bots were yelling and yet Jazz found himself easily focusing on the silver Seeker standing beside him.

Silverwing pulled out a datapad from the badly organized pile on the corner of his desk and powered it up, finger tapping impatiently on the desk as he waited for the screen to boot. When it did, he typed in a code and pulled up a blank report template.

“Take a seat,” Silverwing gestured to the small little stool next to his chair. “We’re gonna be here a while.”

Jazz frowned, complying. “Is the commissioner not here?” He took a moment to glance in the direction of the room he knew to be Prowl’s office. The blinds were down and the lights were off.

“He’s here,” Silverwing muttered, scribbling stuff down in messy little glyphs. “But given how he’s not in the office, he’s downstairs. And I can’t go down there or send a comm without first going through a slag ton of paperwork so we have to wait.” He tapped his stylus against the edge of the datapad. “I’m catching up on one of my reports.”

“I can wait,” Jazz said, wondering what could be so important that Prowl would ensure such extreme measures. Maybe it had something to do with the mission. He never got an update on what happened with the two bots they’d captured. Maybe they were still alive.

“Hax?”

It took Jazz a minute to realize someone was calling him but when he caught on, he turned to look at Silverwing with a quizzical expression. “Hmm?”

Silverwing hadn’t glanced up from his work. “I was asking if there’s anything you’d like? Energon? Sweets? I can go wrestle some rust sticks from IT if you’re feeling particularly hungry.”

Rust sticks sounded amazing. But Jazz quickly shook off the craving. “Thank you but I’m fine.” He paused, swallowing. “I just need to see the commissioner.”

The Seeker paused in his writing, glancing up. “What’s your deal with him, anyway? He’s never talked about having any friends.”

Jazz huffed. “He’s not the talkative type when it comes to personal matters. He likes to keep his work and private life separate.” He shrugged, a small smile forming on his lips. “He’s always been like that. Even before the war.”

Silverwing grumbled. “Didn’t even know he had a private life...” He leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs and balanced the datapad on his thigh before continuing his writing. “The more you learn, I guess.”

They sat in silence for what seemed like joors, Silverwing writing and Jazz glancing around as he observed. It was surprisingly animated in the precinct, more crowded and rambunctious than Jazz remembered. He saw bots with piles of datapads on his desk, disorganized and messy, and others looked like they were running on nothing but fumes as they talked on their comms and ran back and forth to deliver data disks between departments.

The smell of burned oil was strong in the air and Jazz’s nose wrinkled as he caught on to it.

Just how bad had things been for Prowl to allow things to get so bad? Even during the war, with their limited resources and manpower, the Praxian had kept him command halls impeccable.

“He’s out.” Jazz looked back as soon as Silverwing spoke, following the Seeker’s line of sight to the large black door that was now open across the room. A large mech walked out, silver and bearing the Praxian chevron and wings that indicated his heritage. Jazz knew him as Prowl’s second in command but for the life of him, couldn’t remember the mech’s designation.

Nobody else followed him out and Jazz’s optic ridges knitted in confusion when he saw Silverwing rise to his feet, preparing to greet.

“That’s not the commissioner,” Jazz said, hiding his panic.

Silverwing nodded, “yeah, he’s not. Riot’s acting as the temporary commissioner while Prowl’s on personal leave.” His voice lowered. “Personally, I’m not much of a fan but hey, can’t argue with the hierarchy.”

Riot was met by a femme with shoulder tires, who gave him a small data disk and hurriedly explained something before leaving him with it and running off. The silver mech’s face twisted into something unseemly as he subspaced the thing, looking around until his optics finally landed on them.

“Silverwing!” Riot pointed a finger at him, stalking his way over to the desk with his wings flared up in anger. “What the slag are you doing here? I had you out in the field at the institute shooting!”

Jazz had to hand it to the Seeker for keeping his cool under the mech’s verbal barrage. “Apologies, Commissioner but I had an emergency. Someone needs to speak with the commissioner, desperately.” With one hand, the Seeker gestured down at Jazz. “This mech says he needs to speak with Prowl.”

Mention of the other Praxian made Riot’s helm snap back and when he turned to fixate his gaze on Jazz, the saboteur shifted uncomfortably under his glare. Riot said nothing for a klik, narrowed optics focusing on the noticeable bump on the saboteur’s ventrum.

“He’s carrying,” Riot retorted, saying the last word as if it were the unseemliest thing in the world. “You brought a carrying mech in here?”

Silverwing replied, “he was insistent. He’s lost his mate. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You should have left him where you found him. With the EMT at the triage. We don’t have time to go coddling every mech with a complaint or sob story, Silverwing.” Riot shook his helm, throwing his hands up in the air. “Go back to your post before I slagging take your badge and markings.”

The threat made Silverwing stiffen but it didn’t deter him from questioning further. “What do I do with him?”

Riot glared at Jazz for a moment then shrugged. “Put him in one of the holding cells. Diode’ll sign him out when he gets the time.”

“But he’s a carrier mech. You can’t just place him in a cell with a bunch of other mechs. He needs to be comfortable and--.”

Riot’s optics flashed and he planted his hands on Silverwing’s desk, leaning forward. “I’m sorry,” he drawled dangerously. “But are you a medic, Silverwing?”

The Seeker’s wings twitched upwards. “No.”

“Do you have experience with carrier mechs?”

“No.”

“Then put him in a holding cell.” Riot leaned back, grimacing. “And get back to work.” With those words, he turned and made his way into his office. Prowl’s office.

Jazz slowly glanced up at Silverwing, suddenly feeling more sympathetic towards the flier. Silverwing pinched the bridge of his nose and gestured for Jazz to follow him with a small wave of his hand.

“Come on, I’ll get you some Energon and rust sticks before I leave you.”

“Riot isn’t going to like that,” Jazz quipped.

Silverwing offered a tired smile. “Another thing to add to the list,” he said bemusedly. But his EM field was filled with genuine warmth when it stretched out to carefully mesh with Jazz’s and the saboteur couldn’t help smiling in return.

When they finally arrived at the holding cells Riot had mentioned, Jazz’s rumbling tanks had been soothed by the small cube of Energon Silverwing had given him and though the rust sticks weren’t too good, they helped ease some of his nerves when he saw the state of where he would be staying.

It was a small square room, devoid of windows with only a cheap gel-padded berth and fluorescent light making up the decoration. Unlike the others lining it, that particular one was empty compared to the others lining the wall.

Jazz hesitated. “You could just let me go,” he said, turning to look at Silverwing. “I need to get home, badly.”

Silverwing shook his helm, “You were at the site of a crime, Hax. Much as I’m sympathetic, there’s only so much protocol I can ignore for the sake of courtesy.” He continued, “You’ll be fine here. There’s constant surveillance.”

A hand placed itself over Jazz’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. Jazz fought the urge to shake it off.

Silverwing gave him a gentle nudge towards the open cell and Jazz obliged, cursing his stray of bad luck before suddenly the sound of someone calling Silverwing’s name forced them both to a halt.

Jazz glanced over his shoulder in time to catch sight of Riot making their way towards them.

“Meister?” The Praxian jabbed a finger in Jazz’s direction, optics narrowed.

Silverwing stepped forward to deny it but Jazz quickly cut him off, nodding. “Yes, that’s me.” He ignored the Seeker’s bewildered look.

“Good, come with me.” A large hand reached out to grab onto his arm and pulled him forwards, snatching him out of the Seeker’s grip. Jazz let out a noise of protest; he was getting tired of mechs pushing him around.

“Riot!” Silverwing trotted up to catch up to them. “What are you doing?”

Riot didn’t even look at the Seeker. “I got a hold of the mech’s mate. He’s waiting for him back in my office.”

“Mate?” Jazz asked, answering the question lingering in Silverwing’s golden optics.

No answer was given in response but Jazz allowed himself to go a little slack in the commissioner’s grip as a mixture of emotions boiled up inside of him. Had Soundwave managed to find him? It seemed improbable, given how much had transpired in the last orn, no matter how much Jazz tried to work through the kinks in logic. Soundwave was an expert in espionage but Ravage’s fate would have put an enormous dampener on his systems, preventing him from having the strength to even perform a basic search and retrieval.

Unless...his reasons for searching out Jazz were for reasons other than a bittersweet reunion. Soundwave knew Jazz had been at the institute. The place where Ravage had died and Jazz had last been seen.

The saboteur’s steps faltered, his Spark twisting as a familiar fear sprouted in his chest.

Had Soundwave sought him out...in search of retribution?

Making a sharp turn from the hallway they’d been traveling down, the emerged into the main hall and the commissioner’s office came into clear view. The blinds were still down but the lights were on and an awfully familiar silhouette could be seen standing in the middle of the room.

Jazz swallowed roughly, his courage waning. “My mate’s gone,” he suddenly protested, digging his feet into the ground. He knew it made him seem juvenile but he’d been so close to making it back home safely, dammit, and he wasn’t about to risk it all again.

Not even for Soundwave.

Riot tried to pull him forth and the sounds of his grunting must’ve tipped Soundwave off because the shadow moved across the windows and he emerged into the hall.

Only it wasn’t Soundwave.

Jazz felt like all the power had left his frame as he took in the familiar boxy frame, red paint job and gleaming orange visor.

It was Reverb.

He was smiling widely, orange visor bright with faux warmth as he clasped his hands in front of him. “My love,” he crooned, “thank Primus I found you.” The red host mech made a move to reach out and touch him but Silverwing stepped in, forcing Riot to release his hold.

“You’re not his mate,” the Seeker said, voice strong with surprising conviction despite the saboteur’s previous dishonesty.

Before Jazz could even work up the nerve to feel grateful, Reverb was quick to reply. “You’re no doubt referring to the third member of our triad, I assume. Tall and well built, with blue plating, a mask and a red visor, yes?”

Silverwing frowned, “yeah, that one.”

“He’s currently busy attending to a personal matter and since I was available, I came to pick up our lovely little third.” Reverb peered around the Seeker’s frame, grinning at Jazz. “I’m so glad you’ve kept him safe.”

“You tried to kill me,” Jazz hissed, stepping back as the red mech tried to grab his hand. “You sent Makeshift and Demaxx after me. Tried to get them to kill my bitlet!”

The Seeker’s EM field flared with alarm. “What?” He exclaimed, fixating his attention on the red mech.

Reverb paused for a moment before chuckling. “There he goes again, making up stories."

“I didn’t make this up!” Jazz retorted angrily. He looked at Silverwing and pointed at his helm. “Look into my memory banks and you’ll see everything he’s ever done. He’s not my mate, he’s a monster and he’s trying to--!”

“Soundwave misses you,” Reverb cut in icily, smile faltering as he fixed Jazz with a stern look. “Ever since you ran off and tried to get our bitlet medically reabsorbed because you couldn’t stand the thought of losing your job, you’ve grown unstable and have started to see us as monsters. You’re unwell, Meister.” He reached out a hand, EM field projecting a mixture of warmth and love that only Jazz could tell were false fabrications. “Let us help you.”

Jazz wanted to scream. To yell out everything that the monster before him was planning for their entire world but when he opened his mouth, no words came out.

Because of that one thing Reverb had said.

His one weakness.

“Where’s Soundwave?” Jazz asked, voice trembling despite his intents to keep it calm.

“Safe,” Reverb said, tone indicating that he would remain so as long as Jazz complied. “But he’s hurting, Meister. You don’t want him to keep hurting, do you?”

Jazz’s ventilations stuttered. Damn him.

Sensing his opportunity, Reverb brushed past Silverwing and wrapped him up in an embrace, pressing face against the plexiglass of his chest. Jazz stood frozen, accepting but not returning it.

: _:Make it seem believable or else you’ll be responsible for getting Frenzy’s helm blown off.::_

The smooth voice in his helm nearly startled him but the gravity of the words numbed him enough to at least keep himself from jumping back in horror. Jazz closed his optics, lips pursing as his stiff hands slowly lifted up and wrapped around the red mech’s waist.

He had the same frame type as Soundwave but he lacked the gentleness of the blue telepath. His scent was all wrong too, too oily and sweet.

But if he closed his optics, didn’t see the red colors and deprecating orange visor...it was easy to make himself pretend. Pretend this was Soundwave. Pretend he was safe and everything was alright.

His fingers traced the unfamiliar frame pressed against him until they found a seam and dug in, acting out a ferocity of love rather than hate. Reverb’s grip on him tightened, his cheek coming to rest on top of his helm.

“You’re safe now,” Reverb cooed. “We’re all safe now. We can go home now.”

Jazz had no way of knowing if the red mech was bluffing or if Soundwave was truly in danger to begin with. But despite his SpecOps instincts telling him to forget the blue mech and complete the mission, he found that he couldn’t do that.

He couldn’t risk Soundwave. And that realization made the saboteur’s vitals twist in agony as he surrendered himself to his enemy without a fight, pulling back and reassuring Silverwing with a smile that he’d never truly been in danger and that he was fine.

Silverwing looked like he didn’t believe him but he couldn’t do anything. Not with the way Riot was looking at him.

The Praxian led them all the way to the front entrance, waving them off with a grin that was far too forced before he stepped back inside and barred the lingering Seeker from stepping outside.

Jazz spared them one final glance before he felt Reverb roughly push him forth, forcing him to look at the shiny white personal shuttle they were heading towards.

“You’re a hard mech to track down,” Reverb said lowly, voice absent of any warmth as he looked down at Jazz.

“Apparently not hard enough,” the saboteur muttered darkly, slipping inside and settling as far away from the red mech as he possibly could in his seat.

Reverb smiled as he sat down beside him, shutting the door and effectively eliminating any chance of escape for the saboteur. “Yes,” he murmured, voice soft. “And thank Primus for that.” The red mech waved a finger in the air and the shuttle’s engines roared to life with a growl. The bitlet jumped in fear and Jazz instinctively reached down to place a comforting hand over it, fingers gently massaging the warm protoform until it's squirming slowly began to abate.

He could feel Reverb’s optics on him but Jazz forced himself to keep his gaze on the whizzing landscape outside as the shuttle began its journey back, hand never halting its gentle ministrations as he wordlessly apologized to the tiny little creature for his failures.


	30. State Of Affairs

_“In the end, we were soldiers._

_Each fighting a different battle,_

_But victims of the same war...”_

\--id

 

“Comfortable?”

Reverb smiled upon receiving no response, helm giving the tiniest of amused shakes as he abandoned the view of the estate and walked back into the room, shutting the balcony doors behind him.

The room was dark and deathly silent, but Reverb knew exactly where to focus his attention, the soft glow of a blue visor guiding his vision. Jazz sat still as a statue on the edge of the berth, hands clenched into fists in his lap and engine humming softly as it idled. He didn’t move an inch as Reverb walked across the room towards him, attention trained entirely on the floor even as the red host mech kneeled down in front of him.

Reverb studied him for a moment, helm tilting slightly to one side.  Eventually he seemed to grow bored of the other mech’s lack of response and with an impatient huff, snapped his fingers twice in front of his face.

It was like a light switch had been flipped on. The visor flickered once, twice before brightening into focus and the silver mech lifted his helm in a slow and methodical manner. His lips were pursed into a thin fine line but other than that, he showcased nothing else.

“That’s better,” Reverb grinned. He pushed himself to his feet and crossed his arms over his chassis, “for a minute there, I almost thought you were clocking out on me.” Glancing around, his optics focused on something in the corner and he let out a sound of surprise.

“Oh, my. It appears I forgot to offer refreshments.” He jerked his thumb at the tiny table holding his attention, “would you like anything? Energon, coolant?”

The light across the blue visor dimmed into a thin line. “No."

“Ah! He speaks!” Jazz flinched as Reverb dramatically clapped his hands in faux celebration, hands instinctively going to lay over his belly as the sounds ricocheted around the room and assaulted his already sensitive audials. He’d been sequestered in that room for what seemed like orns, cut off from the rest of estate in a silence that had slowly begun to gnaw at him.

Even the tiniest sound made him uneasy, though Jazz was more inclined to believe it was his heightened paranoia at work.

He was back in the place he’d tried to flee, after all. Only this time he didn’t have Soundwave with him.

He was on his own.

“I knew you’d step out of your little temper tantrum soon enough,” Reverb said, walking over to the small table and pouring two cubes of what smelled suspiciously like unleaded Energon. He carried them other, one in each hand, and offered one to the saboteur.

Jazz stared at it with distrust.

Reveb chuckled. “Go on,” he urged, all but pushing it into his face. “I promise you it isn’t poisoned.”

Jazz stiffened at those words but he took the cube, placing one hand over it as he cradled it in his lap. No matter how much his tanks churned with the need for nourishment, he wasn’t about to drink anything that was served to him in the estate.

Much less by the mech responsible for all the slag that was happening on Cybertron in the first place.

The red host mech had no qualms about drinking his own imbibe, taking long drags and smacking his lips with satisfaction. A stray drop of Energon threatened to dribble out from the corner of his mouth but before it could fall, a silver glossa peeked out and caught it.

For some odd reason, the act made Jazz feel uneasy and he quickly glanced away.

“Starving yourself isn’t going to bode well for you,” Reverb said after a moment of silence. “Not with the little one so close to emergence.”

Jazz hissed, visor flashing as he whipped his helm around to fix the red mech with a glare. “You don’t get to talk about my creation.”

Reverb didn’t so much as flinch but his lips did quirk up in a smile. “Feisty. It’s a good look on you.”

“What do you want with me?” Jazz asked, patience evaporating. “Am I prisoner?”

“No,” the red host mech replied. “You’re a guest.”

“Then why haven’t you let me out of this room?”

“You make it sound like I have you bound and gagged in some dungeon,” Reverb said, chuckling. “But the door’s always been unlocked. Had you stood up and tried to open it, it would have let you out.”

Jazz tsked, “So the two mechs you currently have outside are nothing more than decoration?”

“Protection,” the red host mech corrected with a raised finger. “After all, someone did try to kill you. It’s only natural I do my best to ensure that no harm comes to you and your bitlet.” He paused, then added. “Especially considering Soundwave has taken such an interest in your well-being.”

The last few words with said with a thin undertone of contempt, as if he couldn’t believe that he was even saying them. Jazz couldn’t really blame him. He hadn’t expected Soundwave to want any part in this whole situation either.

But he did. Or had, considering the recent turn of events. Now, Jazz wasn’t so sure.

“You should never have left the estate.”

Jazz grimaced at Reverb’s sudden words, holding back his ire just enough to filter through a more cordial reply. “I went to Iacon to get some procedures done,” he said through gritted dentae. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Ah, yes. Well, we’ve recently had to fire the most recent estate doctor for malpractice,” Reverb replied smoothly. “I’m afraid you were acting under the most dubious of medical orders.”

Jazz stiffened, “Jespa’s gone?”

Reverb nodded, a knowing smile on his face. “We’re still in the process of hiring so do try to take care of yourself,” his visor flickered downwards for the briefest of moments. “I would hate for something to happen to you and for help to be...unavailable.” He paused, “unless you’re not adverse to the cruder expertise of wartime medics, of which we have in abundant supply.”

It was a baited trap if Jazz had ever heard one. Reverb was setting out a trail of crumbs and all but begging him to follow, to slip up and forsake everything he’d been building since he’d arrived.

But Jazz wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. So, with a stern grimace, he crossed his arms over his chest and glanced away.

Reverb didn’t let up, however. “Don’t be like that,” he cajoled, stepping up to Jazz and gripping his chin firmly between his thumb and forefinger, forcing his attention back on him.

Jazz stolidly held his glossa.

The fingers loosened their grip on his chin, trailing upwards to trace the soft contours of his cheekplate. They were featherlight on his derma, soft and tentative, but Jazz never let down his guard. All it would take would be a nanoklik for that softness to switch to cold brutality and he wasn’t too keen on starting a fight he couldn’t win.

So he let the touch continue, hating every second of it.

“You’re a smart little thing,” the red host mech drawled, smiling. “Tough and quick thinking, every single thing a carrier should be. And you’re not too bad on the optics, really. I can see why Soundwave took such an interest in you. He always did have a soft-spot for pretty things.”

Jazz flinched slightly as Reverb’s fingers began to trace one of his audial horns, thumb flittering over the sensitive platlets and nodes haphazardly. “I let his infatuation fester because I wanted to indulge him—“ the fingers halted their ministrations, lingering for a brief nanoklik before continuing. “—But I should have known better. Should’ve seen how the way he looked at you was changing, how his protective nature was about more than simply defending his territory...”

Reverb sighed, “but I let my sentimentality get the best of me. And that’s something I will never do again.”

Pain flooded through Jazz’s haptic net as Reverb dug his fingers into the thin metal of his audial horn, bending it. The saboteur let out a strangled scream, hands instinctively reaching up to wrap around the sensitive pressure points located near the nape of the thumb and inner wrist. Almost as soon as he dug his fingers through the seams of the armor, the pressure on his audials lessened to a firm grip and Jazz’s vision slowly cleared itself of the static and flickering HUD warnings.

A sharp tsk sounded, the grip on his helm pushing it back and forcing him to meet the red host mech’s gaze. “I grow tired of these games, Jazz. Haven’t you?”

Jazz expected to feel panic upon hearing his designation escape Reverb’s lips but to his surprise, he felt nothing but a cold dead weight sitting in his fuel tanks. “So, you know,” he muttered lowly.

Reverb smirked, “I’ve known for a while now, really. But it was so much fun seeing you squirm and pretend to act like you were anything but the Autobot’s deadliest saboteur.” Releasing his grip, he pulled his hand back and gently massaged the dents Jazz’s fingers had made. “You made for great entertainment.”

The light in Jazz’s visor dimmed into a thin line across the glass, an imitation of narrowed optics. “What are you going to do now? Kill me?” He tried to sound commandeering but his voice shook on the last glyph and gave away just how much the possibility frightened him.

Reverb took a moment to think about it, tilting his helm dramatically before shaking his helm. “Much fun as the prospect seems, it would be a waste of effort on my behalf. You’ve grown to become useful to my plan and I’m nothing if not professional.” He took a seat beside Jazz, wrapping an arm around the silver mech’s shoulders, orange visor focused on blue. “As I stated before, Soundwave has become quite attached to you. And something tells me he would do anything to ensure your safety...”

Voice dropping an octave, the red host mech leaned in towards Jazz’s audial. “...even if it means helping topple an empire and shooting all his former comrades in the back.”

Jazz’s jaw went slack in horror at those words and he glanced down at the cube in his hands, forcing himself to reel in the aghast and horror that was threatening to spill out from inside him. He couldn’t show weakness in front of Reverb. Even if he was already compromised, his dignity and espionage arsenal were still things he had left to hold on to.

Just like Reverb said, sentimentality had no place here anymore.

“Soundwave,” Jazz began, voice firm. “Is stronger than you give him credit for.”

Reverb laughed, “you forget who he is. At his core, Soundwave is nothing more than a host mech. Driven by his loyalty coding, tethering himself to ideologies and bots who’ve captured his mind and Spark. A few decaorns ago I would have agreed with you but after your little honeymoon in Iacon, your words ring with nothing but folly.”

A warm hand, almost as big as Soundwave’s but lacking the former Decepticon’s gentleness, placed itself over Jazz’s ventrum, thumb rubbing soothing circles into the warm protoform. “This little one has become Soundwave’s entire world,” Reverb explained after a tense moment of uncomfortable silence. “Moreso than his own symbionts, I’d dare say, merely because it was created with someone he loves.” He looked up, smiling. “And I have its fate in the palm of my hand.”

Jazz held his game with a scowl, unwilling to be spooked into submission. He tried to search Reverb’s face for anything useful, anything that could give him something in this battle where he was starting to lose so much but there was nothing but snide satisfaction on the red host mech’s face.

“Soundwave abandoned me,” Jazz ventured, not daring to turn away. “You’re baiting him with the wrong pressure point.”

Reverb pulled back, arm slipping from Jazz’s shoulders. “ _You_ abandoned him,” he corrected. “Though I really couldn’t blame you, given how Ravage sacrificed herself to save you and all.” His smile widened upon seeing the way Jazz’s shoulders slumped at the morbid reminder and he gently rubbed between Jazz’s shoulder struts in comfort. “Maybe if you’d never had the bitlet, you could have prevented all this death. But alas,” he dropped his hand, shaking his helm. “What’s done is done. There’s work to be done.”

Jazz didn’t bother replying. His optics shuttered behind his visor as soon as Reverb stood and made his way out the door, lower lip trembling as the emotional barriers he’d raised up finally began to crack.

Who was he kidding? He was already in too deep to properly distance himself from everything and everyone he’d grown to care about. No matter how many times he tried to convince himself that what he felt for Soundwave was fleeting, his Spark began to ache and flutter at the mere thought of the former Decepticon, reminding him of his own duplicity. 

He’d broken his own rules...and now, it seemed he was about to pay the consequences.

Drastically.

~~~

 

Soundwave woke up with a start, visor flashing online so fast his optics whited out for a second and came back online only when his back found itself hitting the floor with a loud crack.

The pain helped center him and he focused on the radiating pins and needles in his lower back, counting each pulse until he finally had his visor focusing on the pristine white ceiling up above him. Memory banks whirred to life, reminding him of where he was.

And how he got there.

Slowly, he rose into a sitting position and winced slightly as his frame creaked but he otherwise ignored the pain and focused on the two bundles of black, red and blue that loitered near the edge of the medical berth he’d fallen from. Rumble and Frenzy were wrapped around each other tightly, still deep within recharge and completely unaware of his new resting place.

Soundwave placed a hand on the cracked plexiglass over his docking chamber, delving into his quantum bond and making sure the two aerials inside remained undisturbed. Lazerbeak seemed on the verge of awakening but with a few gentle pulses from Soundwave, she fell back into  steady recharge with her brother and the telepath’s mind was empty once more.

He didn’t even dare venture into that fifth tendril of his bond, the one where his fifth symbiont’s outspoken and brash thoughts tended to reside in alongside the warmth of her love and care. Soundwave knew it was a coward’s move but he preferred not to pick up on anything that would give him false expectations; he’d had enough of those to last him the rest of his lifespan.

The sound of a matrixpad being operated drew his attention behind him and he scrambled to his feet, managing to look decent enough to greet the green femme that poked her head inside. Pale blue optics shuttered a few time before focusing on him, a tentative smile on her lips.

“Are you okay?” She asked softly.

Soundwave hesitated.

Sensing the irony of her question, Moonracer shook her helm and opened the door just enough to squeeze on inside. “I meant, I heard a commotion, like something fell. Ratchet told me to keep watch over you and so I just wanted to make sure you weren’t hurt or anything.” She paused, then added, “current circumstances aside and all...”

“Symbiont’s condition, updated?”

Moonracer seemed relieved for the opportunity to delve back into business. “Ratchet’s still working on her,” she said. “It was touch and go for a while but he hasn’t been screaming at me to rush in and help him so I assume everything’s under control.” She nodded once. “As soon as he gives me an update, I’ll let you know."

“Thank you.”

Moonracer’s optics brightened at the words and she smiled a little warmer. “Would you like anything?” She asked, delving back into her role of assistant. “Some Energon? Coolant for the other ones when they wake up?”

“Rust sticks,” Soundwave said before he could stop himself. “With rust flakes, zirconium fillings.” He paused, thinking then added, “And Energon. Please.”

The femme nodded in affirmation. “I’ll see what I can do,” she assured, offering a small head tilt in farewell before disappearing out the door and leaving Soundwave to his own devices. A small prod through the quantum bond made him turn around and his Spark welled up at seeing Rumble peeking up from the bundle that was his brother.

His red visor was still in the process of booting up as he turned to stare at the host mech but Soundwave didn’t care. He took up his position by the berth, kneeling so that he was at optic level with the tiny cassette.

A tiny hand groped around blindly until it landed on Soundwave’s forearm, fingers curling into a seam. “Boss...?”

“Here,” Soundwave murmured, as softly as he cold. He expanded his EM field to surround Rumble, emanating as much warmth and reassurance as possible.

The blue symbiont rumbled in appreciation. “Y’need to recharge,” he groused, visor finally flickering online. “Y’ll burn yourself out.”

“Soundwave, well-rested.” He reassured, lifting up a finger from his other hand and patting the back of Rumble’s hand. “Rumble, does not need to worry.”

“That’s the thing,” Rumble murmured, lowering his voice enough so that it didn’t affect Frenzy. “We do. We’re a team, ‘member?” He paused, then added. “We’re all worried about Ravage...”

Mention of the ebony feline made painful memories resurface and Soundwave’s helm bowed, optics shuttering as he recalled the Spark twisting pain that had exploded in his chest, the kind that had made his knees buckled underneath him and the world go black. He’d run the rest of the way to the institute, fighting the influx of panicked civilians trickling out until he’d reached the floor that Ravage’s signal had been emanating from...

Soundwave stiffened, remembering how every drop of Energon had run cold in his frame upon seeing the body of Ravage lying prone in a pool of her own Energon, smell sickly sweet as she gaped and choked, a huge hole skewering her midsection...

It’d been pure luck that’d gotten them to Ratchet’s clinic. It was in the vicinity, a few breems on foot...a couple nanokliks in the air.

Soundwave had always held a certain respect for the former Autobot CMO; he was by no means a formidable fighter but his intelligence and skill earned him his place among his cause and Soundwave thanked Primus that he was one of the few veterans that did not harbor ill will for former faction lines. Just one look at the broken feline in his arms and he’d gotten right to work, taking Ravage and placing her on a spare cot and wheeling her into the nearest operating theater with one of his assistants trailing behind him.

The bond had fluctuated for a while and Moonracer had been ordered to administer a sedative for all of their safeties.

It’d thankfully worn off.

“Soundwave, appreciates concern.” He said, responding to Frenzy’s previous statement. “Soundwave, will rest more.”

Rumble nodded once, smiling. But the warm sight didn’t even last a breem before it dipped into a worried frown. “We lost Jazz.”

The telepath nodded, “Rumble, Frenzy, not responsible,” he reassured, meaning every word. The last thing he wanted was for the twins to start feelings of guilt on top of all the pain and pressure Ravage’s condition was producing.

“But we don’t know where he is,” Rumble said, voice rising with his worry. “He could be hurt. Or knocked unconscious somewhere,” his intakes hitched, “or maybe even--!”

“Negative,” Soundwave said, refusing to even let that last possibility be voiced. “Jazz, capable of fending for himself.”

Rumble didn’t seem at all soothed by Soundwave’s words but he gave a weary nod, unwilling to speak any further on the matter. Instead he dimmed his visor and turned to curl around his brother once more.

Soundwave watched him until his ventilations regulated to indicate his recharging state, rising to his feet and reclaiming his spot on the large medical berth. It was fitted to hold mechs much larger than Soundwave so it was simple for him to sit down without disturbing the sleeping twins.

In the silence that followed, it was easy to become lost in thought. Soundwave had done his best to keep his focus on his cassettes but Rumble’s words had stirred his subconscious thoughts back to the surface.

He had absolutely no idea where Jazz was at the moment, only knowing that he wasn’t dead because of a brief scanning of the DataNet had revealed no news of any deceased carriers. But that did not help ease Soundwave’s uncertainty.

For all he knew, Jazz was back with Optimus and Megatron, recounting all the truths that he’d arduously been trying to keep secret and condemning Soundwave to a fate worse than death.

Soundwave couldn’t find it in himself to hold it against him. Not really. He’d known what he was doing when he’d first lied to Optimus face all those orns ago, of the consequences that would befall him if he failed. Jazz would merely be doing his job.

And though the possibility of that reality made Soundwave’s Spark twist in his chest, he accepted it. He’d face whatever would come on his own and make sure his symbionts would be exempt from any harm.

The door gave a small beep as it opened once more and Soundwave snapped out of his morose thoughts, glancing up to see Moonracer standing with a small silver box in her arms with two glowing cubes of Energon stacked on top.

She offered him a small dip of her helm in greeting and held out the items in her hands. Soundwave rose from the berth and walked over to receive them, murmuring soft thanks under his breath. Moonracer smiled, “don’t worry about it.” She glanced past the telepath’s elbow and her optics softened for a brief moment. “They’re kinda cute when they’re not actively trying to shoot you from afar.”

“Affirmative,” Soundwave replied.

Moonracer let out a small hum and straightened up. “Ratchet came out of the operating theater a few nanokliks ago. He said you should try opening the bond a little to see if you can get a response but to be gentle about it.” She paused, “if you’re feeling up to it, that is?”

“Yes,” Soundwave replied almost immediately. It was the news he’d been waiting to hear. “Attempts will occur as soon as possible.”

“Good,” Moonracer nodded, sounding relieved as she began to edge her way back outside. “I’ll let him know.”

As soon as the door shut behind them, the bond began to buzz with the excitement and anticipation of his four other symbionts. Lazerbeak and Buzzsaw were demanding to be let out and the rousing twins on the berth were murmuring nearly intelligible questions through their post-recharge haze.

Soundwave soothed them as best he could, pulling up a stray stool and sitting in front of the berth. His docking chamber opened up to let the two aerials out and they circled the room once, twice before gently landing next to their siblings on the berth.

“News?” Buzzsaw chirped, looking more chipper than Soundwave ever recalled seeing him.

“Affirmative,” he replied, nodding. He took a moment to guage his words, knowing full well that they had yet to receive an all-clear from the former Autobot CMO. The last thing he wanted was to raise his symbionts’ hopes up for nothing. Offering a rundown of what Moonracer had relayed seemed like the best way to go about it and he calmly did so, reminding them all that timing was key.

Rumble and Frenzy stayed silent throughout the exchange, Lazerbeak acting as the mouthpiece for them all with her furtive little questions. Soundwave answered them as they came and eventually, the little aerial lapsed into an anxious silence.

A few breems passed when Soundwave suddenly found himself receiving a small encrypted message on an old comm-line of his. The sender made no attempt to be discreet as they demanded his presence outside of the room and Soundwave was quick to comply, reassuring his symbionts through the bond before exiting into the small hallway.

The door barely had time to click shut behind him before someone cleared their throat and Soundwave’s attention was drawn to the end of the sparse passageway. Ratchet stood in the middle with his arms crossed over his chest, face set into his usual stern façade.

“Ratchet,” Soundwave dipped his helm in greeting, slowly making his way towards the medic. His steps were slow and hesitant, however, for he knew that Ratchet was not particularly fond of overeager patients. “How fares Ravage?"

“Ravage is fine,” Ratchet replied curtly. The ion bolt tore through a couple of her main fuel lines and nicked her Spark casing but I was able to patch everything up before it got out of hand. You got her here just in time...” he trailed off, looking around as if trying to make sure they were alone. “You were both lucky.”

The relief Soundwave felt was short-lived in the face of Ratchet’s odd behavior and he grimaced upon noticing that the medic was looking at his docking chamber with an expectant tilt of one of his optic ridges.

“Symbionts, not here.” He replied, answering the unspoken question in Ratchet’s optics. “Ratchet, need not worry.”

Ratchet scoffed, “Who the slag said I was worried?” He uncrossed his arms and lifted up one up, showcasing the small readings screen embedded in his armor. “I was getting a superficial Spark scan.”

The revelation made Soundwave uneasy and he resisted the urge to place a hand over the plexiglass on his chest. “Readings, for Ravage’s benefit?”

“No,” Ratchet said, tapping the screen a few times before glancing up with narrowed optics. “It’s for Jazz.”

Mention of the saboteur made Soundwave freeze and Ratchet’s keen optics caught onto his body language with ease. There was a knowing glint in those blue optics, one that spoke of a knowledge that all but dared Soundwave to try to lie. The telepath knew when he was cornered and this happened to be one of those times.

But instead of delving into the conversation right away, he crossed his arms and said, “Jazz’s location, unknown.”

Ratchet’s features pinched into a frown but when he spoke, his voice held a razor sharp edge. “We both know this isn’t about Jazz’s whereabouts, Soundwave.”

“Then what?”

Blue optics flicked to and fro as they analyzed his appearance, narrowing slightly when they rested on his covered face. “When he was shot during the rally,” he began, voice lowering so that only Soundwave could hear, “I had to open him up to save him. Because the ion bolt had gone in through his back and ricocheted through all of his internals like a slagging pinball machine. His vitals were all over the place, cyberdrenaline levels through the roof and pressures gauges failing with each passing nanoklik...”

He paused, shuddering as the memories assaulted him. “Then he started to crash and I had no other choice. I forced open his Spark casing and prepared to deliver a localized energy burst to it...but I stopped when I realized that the crazy readings weren’t actually coming from his own Spark. They were coming from the newspark that had become untethered under the onslaught of the trauma.”

Soundwave flinched but otherwise said nothing, listening.

“I managed to save them both, you know? I had to connect them both to individual power sources and gently coax Jazz’s Spark to create a new connection and for the newspark to tether itself back to its carrier.” Ratchet’s fingers pinched and moved through the air, subconsciously mimicking the delicate operation he’d performs decaorns ago. “When I finally got them both stable, that’s when I finally allowed myself to unravel. Because I’d found a newspark. Inside of Jazz. _Jazz!_ The last mech on Cybertron that I’d even consider for creator privileges!”

A stony silence hung in the air between them, broken only when Ratchet said, “But that wasn’t the biggest shock. Because sparked up mechs happen up all the time in my clinic. Unprepared creators, combiners, rape victims--” Ratchet’s voice cracked on the last glyph and he took a second to clear his throat, “So I checked Jazz’s frame for any signs of fresh trauma. Other than the usual shot to the back of his spinal strut, he was mostly intact. No tears in his valve lining, no indications of forced merges...which meant that the creation had been, more or less, consensual.”

The medic grimaced, optics flashing as they refocused on Soundwave. “And judging by the size of the newspark, it hadn’t been recent. It was quartexes old...”

The silent accusation in Ratchet’s voice made Soundwave’s hands clench. They both knew what he was getting at and Soundwave was getting tired of underhanded comments veiled indictments.

Ratchet was a smart mech. No doubt he’d pieced the pieces together long before Soundwave had even arrived at this clinic. And he was also very straightforward. So that meant that his little spiel wasn’t about trying to gauge the answer from Soundwave.

It was about something else.

But what?

“He told me he was going to get rid of it,” Ratchet said, glancing away. “With a spark inhibitor. I gave it to him and even though all of my instincts told me to keep him here, I let him go.” He sighed, the sound heavy and tired. “And I have no idea of whether he’s alive or not.”

Soundwave stared at him for a moment, noting how all of a sudden Ratchet looked well beyond his eons. His optics were glassy and the downward tilt of his pursed lips made the lines in his derma more prominent, highlighting the creases of age and the scars of his experience. When he looked up finally to look Soundwave in the optics, there was no fire in there anymore.

Only the desire to know the truth.

“Did you know?”

Soundwave hesitated before shaking his helm slowly. “Negative,” he quickly added, “Not at first.”

Ratchet’s optics widened.

Unperturbed, Soundwave continued. “Jazz’s survival, unknown. Jazz’s carrying state, unfathomed.” He paused, “Circumstances, reunited Jazz and Soundwave...and Soundwave, made aware of sparkling’s existence.”

“Bet the revelation nearly made your processor implode, didn’t it?”

Soundwave’s lips twitched at the attempt at humor. “Affirmative.” A deep-seated sadness took hold of him as he recalled the exact moment when he’d learned that the creation had been his. It’d been in the darkness of his room back at the estate, with Jazz’s tear stained faceplates looking at him imploring, and Soundwave being unable to even smile.

It hadn’t been a joyous occasion.

It had been a moment marred by uncertainty and pain. But Soundwave knew that Ratchet was smarter than to assume otherwise and the attempted humor was a ploy to draw away from the melancholy.

“Is Jazz safe?”

Soundwave didn’t hesitate in his response. “Affirmative.”

Ratchet held his gaze for a few moments before breaking off to give their surroundings one more cursory sweep. “Keep him safe, yeah? Jazz’s trust doesn’t come easy, not even to his closest friends. What he has with you...” he let out a small sigh, shaking his helm. “Just don’t mess it up.”

If only he knew. “Affirmative.”

“Alright,” Ratchet sniffed, snapping back into his curt beside demeanor. “Ravage is waiting in one of the recovery rooms on the uppermost levels. She isn’t cleared for visitors yet but if you’re willing, I’d like to try out some bond exercises to see if we can get her processor activity a little livelier.” He paused, “Think you can manage?”

Soundwave knew that he had no other choice in the matter. Placing a hand over his chest, he gave a firm nod. “Soundwave, capable.”

“Good, then follow me.”

Soundwave said nothing more as he fell in line with Ratchet, gait as steady as it could ever hope to be.

~~~

 “The blueprints are outdated; we can’t rely on them to give us a good picture of the place’s layout.”

“They’re the best we got. Apart from a few rumors among the other Senators, the location hasn’t exactly been open to the general public.”

Optimus let out a heavy sigh, resisting the urge to lean his helm on top of all the maps and diagrams that were currently laid out on the table before him. Some were crudely drawn hand sketches, with scribbled glyphs that were at times unintelligible and confusing and the rest were bits and pieces of labeled maps pulled directly from the archives.

Across the table stood Megatron, arms crossed and red optics narrowed into slits as he mulled over the scattered information. Beside him, Mirage did the same though he took the liberty of picking up datapads and rearranging them in orders that only he seemed to understand.

After a few tense moments of silence, the former SpecOps member stood back and gave a firm nod in affirmation. “I’ve got it.” He said, blue optics flickering between the two leaders as he waited for either to give consent for him to continue.

“What is it?” Megatron groused, impatiently glancing over at Mirage’s work.

“I mulled over the sketches we made after interviewing the representatives individually. Most of them tend to remember very different things but all of them had at least one thing in common about Argyrus’ estate.” A blue finger pointed at one of the datapads, “like the gates and the location of the verandas and even the location of the balconies.” He took out a stylus and began tracing out a few sketches of his own, complete with numerical calculations and distances. “Representative Ethyl said that when he was invited to Argyrus’ estate during his election campaign, he said you could see the faux star rise every third metacycle of the morning orn. If you calculate the orbital cycle of the star, you can surmise where each of the windows are located and at what angle if you take the time to do the math.”

He smiled, satisfied as he pulled back and added to one of the maps from archive. “Based off that alone, we can surmise there are at least twenty rooms on the second floor of the estate, complete with balconies and built in doors. That’s 1/3 of our gathered information that coincides with the dated blueprints.”

Megatron grimaced, stepping back. “That hardly proves anything. What good is it if only bits and pieces are correct?”

The former Towerling kept his expression neutral when he turned to face the former gladiator. “Bits and pieces are better than nothing,” Mirage said softly. “I can work with bits and pieces.”

Red optics narrowing, Megatron retorted, “that’s how our previous agent spoke before we sent him in and he’s disappeared off the face of the fragging planet.”

Optimus braced himself on the table as the words hit him like a runaway Devastator, catching sight of how Mirage’s optics dimmed slightly at the remark.

“Do you have proof that the agent’s dead?”

A brief pause then Megatron reluctantly replied, “no.”

“Then you cannot make any assumptions,” Mirage stated firmly. “Not until there’s a body.”

Optimus chimed in, “that’s the reason you were brought in here, Mirage. We’re trying to avoid that.” He quickly added, “apart from having vital information about this...operation we’re heralding, their wellbeing has become our main priority.”

“Why?” Despite the bluntness of the question, Optimus knew Mirage only asked to be thorough. Figuring that if he was going to send one of Jazz’s best mechs into the fray, the least he could do was offer the whole truth.

“Because they’re carrying.” The silence that met his words was palatable and even without looking, Optimus could tell that Megatron was rooted to the ground in shock and Mirage was trying desperately to quell the surprise and disbelief flaring in his EM field.

Mirage shook his helm, “that’s...unfortunate.”

“Quite,” Optimus replied brusquely, fingers curling into fists. “But inopportunely, we were caught blindside by this far too late.”

Movement at the corner of his optics had his helm snapping up in time to see Megatron rounding the table and reaching out to grasp one of his arms, fingers digging deep into the alloy as the silver mech began to herd him out of the room.

“Excuse me, Mirage,” Megatron said succinctly. “But I am going to have to steal my bonded for a moment.” Before Mirage could even reply, Megatron had pulled them both into the antechamber connected to the briefing room and all but slammed the door behind him.

“Megatron,” Optimus began, hands held out beseeching in front of him. “Please, understand.”

Megatron’s back tensed for a moment, relaxing as he slowly pivoted his torso to face the red and blue convoy. His optics were smoldering but his movements were fluid and graceful. “Oh, I understand completely, Optimus.” He took a calculated step forward, enunciating every word. “You’ve been keeping things from me.”

“Yes.”

“I allowed you to hold your silence because I trusted you, Optimus. But now I’m starting to question the legitimacy of my own actions.”

Optimus said nothing.

“Things are spiraling out of control. You’re losing your grip on your agents. You’re pulling mechs you promised to let live away from their families and into the field once more.” Megatron paused, grimacing. “After Mirage, who’s next? The little scout? Your medic?"

Optimus stepped back, optics narrowing over his facemask. “What are you implying?”

Megatron didn’t hesitate to reply. “You’re going to great lengths to try and get this little spy of yours back. Even during the war, I never saw you this dedicated to keep your men alive.”

“I care about my men,” Optimus began, “regardless of the circumstances.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed. “But they’re not your men anymore, are they?”

“What relevance does this have to our conversation, Megatron?”

“Do you love him?”

The sudden question made Optimus trail off in confusion. “What?”

The former warlord huffed. “Jazz. Do you love him?”

Optimus scoffed, speechless. But then he caught his air and let out a mirthless chuckle. “Is this jealousy I’m sensing, Megatron?”

“Hardly,” Megatron muttered. “Merely a question.”

“Rest assured, my affection for Jazz only runs so deep. But I need to get him back because I wasn’t lying when I told Mirage that he’s in possession of sensitive information.” His voice lowered. “Everything that we’ve planned, all of our secrets and our lies lie with him. If anyone else gets their hands on him, we could have another civil war on our hands.”

Megatron grimaced. “So, you doubt your saboteur’s skill.” He shook his helm. “That doesn’t bode well for any of us.”

Optimus let out an exasperated sigh. “No, it does not. But we’re out of options. Mirage’s capabilities and past record make him the best candidate we have for reconnaissance.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, as if staving off a helmache. “We’re going to take credits out of the military assets to fund his trip. I’ll take full responsibility when the recount comes up.” A brief pause and then he added with no quiver to his voice. “If this goes south, I’ll take full responsibility. For everything.”

Megatron stood silent for a moment, gauging Optimus’ expression and words with an unreadable expression. He glanced over his shoulder, optics narrowing briefly before shuttering them and focusing on Optimus once more. Then he reached out to grasp Optimus shoulder and with a terse tug, pulled the Prime into an impromptu half-hug.

Optimus immediately accepted the affection, wrapping his arms around Megatron’s waist and closing his optics as he inhaled the scent of his wax. It helped center him. More than he dared to voice. “What’s this for?”

A shrug, and then Megatron replied, “Don’t fall apart, Optimus. This hasn’t fallen apart yet. There’s still a modem of a chance that this will be successful so please, for both our sakes, keep focused.”

A humorless laugh rumbled between them, neither sure who started it exactly. But they didn’t say anything else, knowing that words would do nothing to change the eventuality of what they were about to do.

So, with a shared look of understanding, they made their way back to the main conference room, where Mirage was patiently waiting for them.

There was no turning back now.


	31. Duplicity

_“I guess I’ll just do what I always did when things got_

_rough during the war._

_Disappear.”_

 

Jazz was awoken from his recharge by the sound of the door to the room clicking open and his hyper alert subroutines made it easy for him to snap to full consciousness in a matter of nanokliks, in time to see the pearl white frame of Aster making his way inside with a covered tray.

Trickles of sunlight were seeping into the room through the cracks in the windows’ curtains, giving the ostentatious furniture and decorations an almost incandescent glow. Grimacing, Jazz lifted himself into a sitting position from the mess of pillows surrounding him and fixed the retainer with a calculated stare.

Aster didn’t even bother looking at him, stopping at the edge of the berth and holding out the tray with an insistent clearing of his intake.

Jazz barely moved a strut. “Leave it on the table,” he muttered, preparing himself to go back into recharge. His chronometer indicated that it was far too early to be up and about and the cube he’d previously drunk was still sloshing around in his fuel lines.

But Aster didn’t seem keen on listening to Jazz’s request. “I have orders to make sure you eat,” he replied, voice impassive. “And I have express permission from lord Reverb to force-feed you if necessary.”

Jazz scoffed but he was too tired to argue and the look Aster was giving him was proof enough of the validity behind the threat. His aching audial horn reminded him that he’d been mech-handled more than enough times in the past orn and he wasn’t too keen on repeating the experience. So he carefully swung his legs off the edge of the berth and rose to his feet, walking around the berth and collecting the tray. He took it to the small table where Reverb’s collection of coolant and Energon was stored and took the lid off to expect the contents.

It was small Energon gummies, in an assortment of colors, with tiny shavings of minerals and metals dusting the surfaces. Jazz caught a whiff of copper and zinc, both of which made his mouth water. But of course, he wasn’t about to let his hosts know how much the treats brightened his dreary orn.

“Thanks,” he said, without looking at Aster. The retainer had taken position in Jazz’s periphery vision, red optics narrowed as he watched the silver mech pick up a green cube and pop it into his mouth. The insides had a gooey center that melted on Jazz’s tongue and he let out a small huff of satisfaction after swallowing it, carefully keeping his expression neutral.

After five long breems, the small bowl was finally empty and Jazz hastily put the cover over it and handed it back to the white paneled mech. Aster took it with a slight grimace, optics narrowing even further when he noticed that Jazz was making his way back to the berth.

He tipped the tray in his hands a little, observing before he finally spoke. “Is that wise, Meister?”

It was the use of his alias that made him freeze more than the mech’s words. Stiffening slightly, Jazz regarded him over the cusp of his shoulder. “What?”

“You’ve spent orns in this room, refusing to do anything other than recharge and refuel.” He paused, “I’m not an expert in carrier physiology, but I can assure you that your current habits are doing the little one no good. A walk around the estate every orn would be beneficial, for example.”

Jazz’s hands automatically went to his ventrum. “So now you care what happens to the bitlet?”

Red optics widened slightly in surprise before readopting their narrowed gaze. “As I’ve stated to you before, I believe in defending the innocent. Your creation deserves the opportunity to emerge. Despite the wrongdoings of its creators.” He took a step forward. “Reverb is offering you the opportunity and like a fool you’re throwing it away.”

“This creation is mine,” Jazz retorted firmly, not caring about keeping face anymore. “None of you, and much less Reverb, have any fraggin’ say over what I chose to do for it.”

Aster’s optic ridged knitted together in concern. “Is that why you went to Iacon to terminate it?”

That caught Jazz off guard. Bravado faltering, he was silent for a few moments before somehow managing to muster an indignant “what” of surprise. He shook his helm and whirled around to face the white mech, hands up in a gesture for him to say nothing more. “Hold up. Where the slag did you hear that?”

“Reverb’s been talking,” Aster said succinctly.

Jazz scoffed, “Is that what he’s been saying? That I was leaving to go terminate the bitlet I’ve been breaking my back to protect?” He continued, “If I wanted to terminate, I would’ve gone to Jespa and told her to do it the first orn I got here.”

For a moment, Aster said nothing. He merely held Jazz’s gaze, lowering his stare every so often to gauge Jazz’s body language. It seemed like an eternity before his features pinched and he glanced away, shoulders slumping into an uncertain hunch. He seemed torn between the inkling of uncertainty Jazz’s reaction had festered within him and his loyalty to his masters.

But he was a mech of few words and didn’t seem too keen on continuing the conversation. “Just keep yourself fed,” he muttered at last and made his way out of the room. Alone once more, Jazz felt the strength of the Energon gummies seep out of his frame and suddenly it was a struggle to keep himself upright. He all but fell back onto the berth, sitting on the edge and helm falling into his hands as the tingles of a painful helmache began to fester.

Everything hurt and he knew that Aster wasn’t lying when he said that lying around was proving to be detrimental to the bitlet. It seemed to have grown a few inches in the last few orns, the delicate protoform around Jazz’s ventrum having expanded to accommodate the bitlet’s frame and almost every movement it made sent waves of pain shooting down his spinal strut.

Jazz knew it probably had something to do with the fact that the bitlet’s emergence was getting closer and he hadn’t been able to get the codes and redesign necessary to prepare for it. Reverb hadn’t been lying when he said no medic was available and Jazz wasn’t too keen on doing anything that could exacerbate his situation.

Because he knew for a fact that he wouldn’t be getting out of this alive if he did.

Cold fear gripped Jazz’s Spark as he came to the realization and he gritted his dentae, worrying them as he tried to contemplate some method of escape. Of course, he came up with nothing and the futility of the situation made him want to break something with his bare hands.

He desperately wanted to be with Soundwave again. Even if they were both prisoners within this very room, at the very least Jazz could recharge knowing he’d be taken care of and that no harm would come to him so long as the telepath was there to watch over him.

Jazz missed Soundwave, desperately so and if he were given the chance to speak to him once more, he’d do everything in his power to apologize and try to fix what was now broken between them. Maybe it was pathetic, imagining himself groveling at the feet of the mech who’d gotten him into this predicament in the first place and wishing for his company despite his traitorous intentions, but Jazz couldn’t find the will to regret it.

Because he loved Soundwave. And given the precarious nature of the situation, it wouldn’t really do him much good to live in denial.

He settled back into the berth as best he could, curling around one of the large pillows and lulling himself back into recharge. It wasn’t too difficult, given the fact that his mind was full of warm memories and recollections.

When he finally allowed himself to wake up for good, the room was bright as it always was during the midorn and his tanks were rumbling to remind him that he was in need of refueling. Thankfully he was alone in the room and no one seemed to be eager to come inside so he allowed himself the opportunity to walk across the large room into the ornate washracks that were allocated through a pair of large doors. The smell of cleanser was overpowered by the rich smell of a familiar wax and upon seeing the cosmetic materials that adorned the shelves of the room, Jazz realized exactly who the room belonged to.

He’d never imagined Reverb to be a pretentious mech, given his penchant for the dramatic and rather bland color scheme, but the dozens of shades of red paint bottles it seemed that Reverb had his own cosmetology right down to the most intricate science.

And that was with the whole shelf of waxes being completely left out of the initial calculations. Jazz made his way towards those, picking one of the short cylindrical glass containers and turning it over in his hands. The brand wasn’t one he recognized but the dark brown material inside reminded Jazz of the one Soundwave always used and his curiosity got the better of him.

Popping open the lid, he gave the insides a tentative sniff and hummed in pleasure when the familiar smell overwhelmed his olfactory sensors. It was that same familiar smell, absent of the faint gunpowder odor that Soundwave tended to carry. Reverb didn’t seem to use it too much given how the container was still full and Jazz was thankful for the fact.

He held it tightly in his hand as he chose a cleanser and made his way towards the showerhead, fumbling a little with the controls until a steady stream of warm solvent cascaded over his frame. Rivulets seeped into his seams, washing out the grit and dust from his joints and warming his sore struts until the liquid circling the drain turned a slight grey.

Jazz closed his optics, offlining his visor as he savored the sensation and the bitlet seemed to almost curl up in contentment at the sensations, small bursts of warmth echoing through the still developing bond between them. He onlined his visor after a few minutes passed, spraying some cleanser into his hands and getting to work on the tougher stains lining his armor plating. His fingers were firm and sure with each stroke, working over his arms and legs until all traces of the past few orns were finally erased.

The showerhead turned off automatically and Jazz quickly dried himself under the drying unit. He grabbed a small mesh cloth and took a seat on a small detailing ledge, opening the wax and beginning to apply it to his frame.

It’d been a while since he’d detailed himself so he was naturally out of practice and when he finally finished, there were a few streaks here and there that would have made Sunstreaker’s Energon boil but Jazz wasn’t too worried about his physical appearance at the moment. All that mattered was that he suddenly felt a bit better than he had in the past few orns.

He subspaced the soiled mesh cloth and waxing solution and palmed open the door to the washracks, stepping out into the slightly less warm atmosphere of the main room.

A chill went up his spinal strut but before he even had the chance to rub his arms, the sound of hissing hydraulics had him whirling around to face the open balcony doors. The curtains billowed in the soft breeze but they were suddenly being pushed aside to allow Reverb to stroll into the room, hands clasped behind his back and a smile parting his faceplates.

The red host mech gave a tentative sniff into the air and his smile widened into a grin. “I see you’ve got a fancy for the Povian wax. Can’t say I find the appeal in such a dull scent but on you, it smells positively divine.”

The light across Jazz’s visor dimmed into a thin line though his vitals twisted with unease. “What are you doing here?”

Reverb spread his arms out wide. “As you may have just now noticed, this is my room. I’ve been kind enough to give you some space for the past few orns but I find myself missing it.”

Jazz scowled, “Like the Pit you’re going to start sharing the room with me. I’d rather you threw me into one of the underground pantries.”

Chuckling, Reverb shook his helm. “Don’t be so hasty, Jazz. Unlike Soundwave, I’m not interested in playing house and getting behind your panels. It’s all just business.”

“Business,” Jazz echoed, crossing his arms over chest in defiance. “Can’t say I’m big on investing in anarchy and terrorism.”

His words made Reverb’s visor dim but the smile never left his lips. Instead, he face-palmed rather dramatically and rolled his helm as if he were talking to some unknowing little youngling. “I tire of having to repeat myself,” he replied and held out a hand towards Jazz, palm up invitingly.

Jazz stared at it as if he’d been offered Unicron’s dismembered spike on a stick.

“Aster tells me you haven’t been exercising enough,” Reverb stated, hand still held out imploringly. “Rethelia tells me that’s not good for the bitlet and she’s tasked me with making sure that you get in your recommended amount of movement for the orn.” He hummed. “I know of the loveliest little spot.”

“I’m fine in here,” Jazz retorted.

Like the flick of a switch, the warmth Reverb had been exuding evaporated and was replaced with a cold taciturnity that made Jazz’s Energon freeze in his lines. Orange visor flashing, Reverb took a couple more steps until he was but a few feet away from Jazz. “It wasn’t a request,” he said sternly.

Instinct now leading him, Jazz had no choice but to reach out and place his hand in Reverb’s palm. Those long fingers curled around his smaller hand, and before long he found himself being pulled towards the door.

The guards outside glanced expectantly as they passed by but once they turned their backs on them, Jazz could hear them trying to muffle their harrying chuckles and muttering indiscernibly until they were out of earshot. Uncomfortable, Jazz tried to pull his hand out of Reverb’s grasp but the red host mech was stronger and he forced Jazz to loop his elbow around his, one hand firmly keeping Jazz’s hand on Reverb’s bicep.

Jazz knew when he was beat and so he fell in line with Reverb, helm bowed and visor dim as he struggled to avoid forming any direct eye contact with members of the staff and guests. But he counted his steps and kept track of all the twists and turns of the hallways, committing them to memory.

They might find themselves coming in handy in the future.

The warmth of the sun on Jazz’s plating was ultimately what prompted him to lift his helm and when he did, he was met with the empty gardens of the estate, empty of the training mechs he’d grown used to seeing. Instead, large ornate sculptures of crystal dotted the landscape and as Reverb led him into the maze of artwork, he realized from the smell of burned ion that these sculptures were new.

Jazz didn’t remember seeing them in the past.

“This is where you first trained Radiance,” Reverb said suddenly, glancing down to look at Jazz with reminiscent smile. “Remember?”

The saboteur froze, optics widening behind his visor as he realized that Reverb was right. But how did he know? He hadn’t been there when Jazz had made the deal with the youngling.

Not saying anything, Reverb led them further down the small passageway until they arrived at a small clearing that housed a singular sculpture that looked hauntingly familiar. After a few nanokliks, Jazz finally found out why and he jerked his helm back in surprise.

“Is that--?”

“Radiance,” Reverb said and his voice suddenly took on a melancholic tone as he gazed up at the intricate piece of work. “We had it made a few orns ago. To commemorate him.”

“Commemorate?” Jazz was growing tired of Reverb’s lack of clarity.

Reverb slowly turned his helm to look at him, optics narrowed. “Oh, right. I forget that you weren’t here.” He shook his helm, putting on such a display of feigned despondency that made Jazz’s SpecOps instincts cringe. “Unfortunately, little Radiance is no longer with us anymore.”

Jazz froze for a moment, caught by surprise but then he slowly found his features twisting into a scowl. “Did you kill him?” He hadn’t forgotten the look Reverb had sported when Radiance had nearly been crushed to death by Tankor. There hadn’t been a single trace of worry or fear in his frame or EM field. Instead, he’s looked unbearably smug, as if he were watching his greatest masterpiece unfold.

A sharp pain spread across Jazz’s face and the world spun around for a moment, Reverb’s grip on his hand being the only thing that kept him from falling to his knees. For a nanoklik, Jazz couldn’t seem to pinpoint what had just happened but his processor quickly caught up and connected the pieces. Gasping softly as he reached up to touch his cheek and a raw stinging sensation accompanied the action, Jazz looked up at Reverb with a bewildered expression.

“You hit me.” He said stupidly, noticing how Reverb shook his hand a few times before clenching it into a fist and letting it drop to his side.

Reverb grimaced, “Yes,” he said and his tone was an odd mix of anger and faux good-naturedness. “I am a patient mech, Jazz but I won’t stand for someone spouting lies and heresy about me and my intentions.” He sniffed. “I loved Radiance as if he were my own creation and don’t you ever dare doubt that again.”

A callous retort teetered on the tip of Jazz’s glossa but he knew better than to poke and prod at an unstable mech so he simply pursed his lips and gave a harsh nod of understanding. “Apologies,” he gritted out, feeling anything but remorseful.

“I forgive you,” Reverb said softly, and the same hand that had slapped him was suddenly reaching over to gently grasp is chin and turn his helm to inspect the damage on his cheek. Jazz hissed as Reverb caressed the tiny aperture on the derma with his index finger, dabbing at a tiny bead of Energon that welled up.

“It’s not deep,” Reverb stated. “Your repair systems should take care of it in a couple nanokliks.” He proceeded to loop their arms a little tighter, until Jazz was all but pressed up against Reverb’s side. “Remember your place and no further harm will come to you.”

Jazz pulled his helm back, avoiding the red mech’s gaze. “I understand.” He knew the host mech was lying but he was definitely no longer in a position to go around testing his luck. Reverb had proven to be unapologetic about laying his hands on him...Jazz shivered in fear upon imagining what he’d do to his creation should he step even further out of line.

No. Jazz couldn’t afford to put the bitlet in danger.

They continued with their little walk and the rest of it proved to be completely uneventful. Jazz took the opportunity to observe the estate, noting possible weak points in the security gate and where the guards patrolled. Reverb talked for a few kliks now and then but Jazz didn’t let the inane chatter distract him.

He’d heard enough terrorists trying to justify their own actions to know just the brand of slag Reverb would try to force feed him.

“—don’t you agree?”

Jazz didn’t bother tuning into the conversation. “No,” he replied, gaze focused straight ahead.

Immediately, Reverb pulled them to a halt and Jazz glanced up to stare at Reverb, lips pursed.

Reverb huffed, amused. “Never took you for the mech who turns their back on friends.” He shook his helm and left Jazz with the cryptic phrase, silently leading them to finish their circuit before making their way back inside. It had gotten dark over the course of their walk and Jazz noticed that the halls were eerily empty of bots as they headed towards Reverb’s room.

They paused outside of the door, Reverb’s hand hovering over the matrixpad for a brief moment. “I think you’re going to enjoy what I have planned for you,” he said with a smile and pressed his palm against the panel, the door hissing open.

Inside, all of the lights were on and Jazz’s attention quickly zeroed in on the large yellow mech taking up residence in the middle of the room. He recognized him, that ugly yellow color scheme and the huge bulk that spoke of a mech based heavily in construction.

“Tankor!” Reverb crooned, waving his free hand in greeting. “What an absolute pleasure!”

The large mech dipped his helm in return. “Ze pleasure iz mine.” He said and his blue optics flickered towards Jazz, recognition lighting their blue depths. But he offered no greeting to him, focusing his attention back on Reverb.

The red host mech let go of Jazz’s arm and Jazz took the opportunity to massage his limb, fingers skimming over the red paint transfers and indentations with veiled disgust.

“I heard you’ve got a present for us,” Reverb said, grinning in a way that made his orange visor glow. “I must admit, you’ve got me rather anxious.”

Jazz glanced at him from the corner of his optic, hating how excited he sounded. Anything that got Reverb this riled up tended not to bode well for anyone else.

Tankor shuffled his feet, as if bashful. “A filthy scraplet,” he said, smooth voice harsh and unforgiving. “Sniffing around like a turborat.” He motioned for someone to come forward and the door to the balconies were kicked open and two dark plated figures slithered into the room, pulling a limp figure between them which they dumped unceremoniously at Tankor’s feet.

Immediately, Jazz recognized their dark red optics and black plating and his ventilations stuttered as the larger of the two glanced up to look at him, a leering grin on his face.

“Well, well,” Makeshift drawled, hands falling to his hips. “Seems like Demaxx chickened out after all.”

A shrill laugh followed his statement and Flareup lifted a hand to cover up her mouth to muffle it. “Oh dear, Riot’s not going to be happy to hear that.”

Reverb growled at the femme immediately, prompting both Shifters to withdraw into silence and share a wide-opticked glance with the yellow mech behind them. Jazz didn’t really catch what they’d been saying, however, because they figure lying on the ground let out a loud groan of pain that made a shiver run up Jazz’s spine.

It sounded...familiar. And though the bot was covered in soot and dirt and Primus knows what else, there were bits and pieces that looked horrifyingly recognizable. Jazz took a step forward, fear for his own safety being overwritten by the fear of the dawning realization in his mind being true.

Beside him, Reverb beamed. “See something familiar, Jazz?”

Jazz couldn’t hear him. All his attention, all his focus, was on the mech right in front of him. He knelt down as best he could, wincing as his frame protested the movements, but his hands never faltered as they gently landed on the mech’s back and slowly began to trace its contours.

Gently, he wiped away some of the debris caking the mech and a lump formed in his throat as a glimpse of pearl white plating appeared. He didn’t want to continue, couldn’t bear to face what his instincts were screaming at him, but he forced himself to endure.

As time passed, the dust and soot were brushed off and Jazz closed his optics upon recognizing the white plating and blue highlights; his helm bowed, one of his hands seeking out the only functional one the mech had and he gripped it with as much force as he could muster.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered, voice pained. _“You shouldn’t be here...”_

Before he had a chance to do any more, a pair of hands roughly grabbed him under his arms and pulled him away. He didn’t fight, couldn’t, all he could do as he was forced to his feet was watch as Tankor grabbed the blue and white mech’s neck and wrenched him onto his knees, movements aggravating the downed mech’s wounds. His face was a mess, one cheek caved in and both of his optics cracked and barely online. Energon dribbled out of the corner of his chin, falling to the floor and staining the silver alloy with its dark purple hue.

“I have to say,” Reverb said, stepping into Jazz’s line of vision with an almost haphazard gait. “When I heard stories of the Autobots’ branch of SpecOps mechs, I was impressed. Reading about the feats you managed to accomplish, the myths and legends that circulated in Deception scuttlebutt certainly painted a gruesome picture. But now that I’ve come face to face with two of its best members, I find myself anything but impressed.”

He gestured at Jazz, “The infamous saboteur...and the disappearing shadow.” Reverb turned to look behind him, scoffing. “Jazz and Mirage, I’m afraid you have been nothing but a disappointment.”

Mirage swallowed roughly, shaking his helm as best he could in Tankor’s grasp. “Let...me go...and I’ll change...that.” He let out a cry of pain as Tankor’s grip tightened, sparks flying as the delicate metal of Mirage’s armor snapped under the intense pressure. The former Towerling had never been built for brawn, depending on his speed and agility more than anything. Even the slightest pressure could bend his plating and it seemed that Tankor was well aware of all of Mirage’s weak points.

Jazz wanted to scream at them to stop but he could see Reverb’s orange visor focused on him, gauging his reaction and Jazz knew that the host mech was looking to elicit some sort of response out of him. He thrived on theatrics, after all, so he was no doubt expecting some crying and begging on Jazz’s behalf.

But Jazz was made of sterner stuff.

This was textbook resistance training. He’d seen mechs he cared about being tortured right in front of him as part of his conditioning, learned how to keep his emotions in check even as his loved ones had been torn apart and their screams echoed in his audials.

All SpecOps agents knew that failure was inevitability. And they’d all been aware of the fact that one day they’d be used as bait or leverage against their comrades.

One day they’d have to accept that they were going to die.

Mirage was a stoic mech that’d very rarely shown any kind of emotion, even during battle. He’d had his legs blown off by a landmine once and powered through with a grimace and a grunt, still sane enough to list off his report to Jazz via comm before being forced into medical stasis for treatment.

But now he was screaming and the sound made Jazz’s Energon freeze in his lines. He tried to block it out, reminding himself that sentimentality had no place in this scenario and that he was balancing the fate of the world against one of his best agents and closest friends.

He’d lost everything already. What was one more friend?

Almost as quick as it started, Mirage’s screams cut off and descended into pained whimpers and Jazz onlined his optics, surprised that he’d even turned them on in the first place. Reverb was staring at him, face still held in that hauntingly familiar grin.

“Never took you for a masochist,” Reverb said, chuckling. “Guess you’re finally starting to show your true colors, eh?”

Jazz grimaced but kept his silence.

At that point, Reveb started to look annoyed and he snapped his fingers. Immediately, Tankor put Mirage back onto his knees and reached over to wrap his other hand around Mirage’s shoulder canon and before anyone could say anything, the yellow mech pulled and the delicate appendage was ripped out in a shower of sparks and screeching metal.

“Beautiful,” Flareup sighed from somewhere to Jazz’s left and the reverence in her tone made him want to purge.

Mirage’s scream was deeper, more guttural and he clenched his dentae and rode through the waves of never-ending pain. His optics were flaring white and Jazz hated himself for every single moment of his friend’s pain. Already he could see Hound’s gentle faceplates being marred by the pain of realizing his closest friend was dead and imagination paled in comparison to the fury that Onslaught would feel upon realizing his intended had been taken away so suddenly.

“This is getting boring,” Makeshift pipped up suddenly behind Jazz. “Just kill the mech and be done with it.”

“Shhh!” Flareup hissed, red optics flashing. “I still wanna see the Autobot squirm.”

Reverb glanced at Jazz briefly before shrugging in resignation. “Fine, then. Tankor. Rip his helm off of his—.”

“Wait!” Jazz shook his helm, hand reaching out towards Reverb. “Don’t do it.”

Reverb narrowed his optics mockingly but held up a hand to stop the yellow mech. “And why not?”

Jazz swallowed roughly, “please,” he begged. “I’ll do whatever you want...”

“Pathetic.” Makeshift hissed and Jazz let out a grunt of pain as one of the Shifter’s feet connected with the back of one of his knees, sending a bolt of white hot pain that had him kneeling and gritting his dentae in agony. The bitlet squirmed, scared and confused and each of its movements had Jazz curling into himself and gasping.

“Makeshift!” Reverb barked, stalking over with a fire burning in his visor. “Did I give you permission to touch him?”

The Decepticon was silent for a moment, fuming. Then, “no.”

“Exactly,” Reverb said and Jazz heard the sound of metal on metal and Makeshift’s grunt of pain not long after. The red host mech’s hands were suddenly on his shoulders, rubbing soothingly. “There, there, Jazz. Deep breaths. Is it the bitlet?”

Sensing an opportunity to end the macabre display, Jazz nodded.

Reverb cursed something under his breath and turned towards Flareup. “Get Tonic in here as soon as possible. Tell him it’s urgent.” The femme didn’t say anything but Jazz heard the sound of her footsteps disappearing towards the door, Makeshift’s heavier ones following not long after.

Tankor shifted uncomfortably, Mirage moaning in pain with each one. “Reverb. What do I do wit zis one?”

The red host mech didn’t even bother looking up. “Lock him up. But make sure to put him in stasis so he doesn’t make too much noise, though. We still need him.”

“Understood.” Within moments, Tankor was also gone and Jazz resisted the urge to sob in relief. He still had no clue what Mirage was doing here or how he’d even gotten caught but the important thing was that he was safe for the time being.

Jazz hissed in pain as Reverb ungracefully tried to pick him up in his arms, the red host mech’s movements uncoordinated and making pain shoot through Jazz’s entire frame. But he was quick to deposit him on the berth and Jazz cycled a deep ventilation of relief as the soft surface eased some of his pain.

But it didn’t go away. Ignoring Reverb’s clumsy touches, Jazz forced himself to glance down at his ventrum and he felt the air catch in his intakes upon seeing how unnaturally distended the protoform looked like. It was like something out of a pre-war horror movie but what Jazz was seeing wasn’t some cheap special effects, it was his own frame.

And it scared the living Pit out of him.

Something was wrong. Very wrong. And he was running out of time to figure out what to do.

He closed his optics and focused all of his energy on the bond he shared with the bitlet, desperate and scared.

 _::Hold on,::_ he pleaded silently. _::Just a little while longer. It’s still not safe yet...::_

The bitlet offered no response and as another movement made more pain erupt through his frame, Jazz tossed head back and silently prayed to a god he did not believe in for just a little more time.

~~~

Soundwave raised his hand to knock one more time, an impatient sigh escaping him. Before his knuckles rapped against the large door, it creaked open and the telepath stiffened upon seeing the familiar blur frame of Rethelia.

But she was different. Her plating lacked its usual luster and her green visor was dim and listless, almost vacant. The paint on her lips was faded, as if she hadn’t even bothered retouching it.

There was little to be said about the static flickering in her EM field.

“Rethelia,” Soundwave said curtly, dipping his helm in greeting.

She let out what sounded like a hum and stepped aside, gesturing for him to come in with a weak twitch of her hand. Soundwave complied, carefully brushing past her to step inside the foyer on the estate. It too seemed to share Rethelia’s somber mood, with dust settled on top of some of the furniture and the floors lacking their usual shine.

The staff had apparently been slacking off on their jobs.

“What do you want?” Rethelia murmured softly, closing the door. She wrapped her arms around her lower torso and sighed. “If you’re looking for Reverb, he’s busy.”

“Doing what?” Soundwave asked, dropping the usual soft tone he used whenever he was around the femme.

Rethelia’s lips pursed, “important work,” she snapped, anger and frustration suddenly rolling off her in waves. “What the slag do you care? You left, remember?”

This was definitely not the welcome that Soundwave had expected. Certainly, he hadn’t anticipated a standing ovation but he hadn’t predicted that they would be meeting him with so much negativity first thing through the door.

He’d let Reverb know why he was heading back to Iacon. Even if the red host mech hadn’t approved, he’d practically given him his blessing. So why the sudden turn to hostilities?

“Reverb, located where?” Soundwave asked, stepping into the grand hall and glancing around for any familiar signs of the red mech. Rethelia followed him, shaking her helm with a vengeance.

“It doesn’t slagging matter! Why are you here anyways? Didn’t you run off with that little carrying pleasurebot you took a fancy towards?” She giggled, almost hysterically. “Did you lose him? Or did you finally— _urk_!” Rethelia let out a strangled scream as soon as Soundwave’s hand closed around her neck but she quickly clamped her lips shut and tried to wrap her legs around Soundwave’s arm to throw him off. But Soundwave was bigger than she was, stronger too and so she wasn’t able to do much damage other than a few scratches before Soundwave pushed her back and pinned her against a wall.

Rethelia struggled, all standoffishness disappearing and being replaced by genuine fear. “You won’t kill me,” she said, shaky voice defying her strong words. “Traitor you may be but you’re not going to kill your own family, are you?”

“Family,” Soundwave muttered, hating how the word tasted on his glossa after she’d spoken it. “Family, does not abandon.”

The femme’s lower lip quivered and she went limp in his grasp. “You abandoned us,” she breathed, vents hitching with each word. “You know half the staff quit after you left, right? Inspired by your stupid little mech’s false bravado. The guards, too. And Reverb sent off all of his men into the city.” She swallowed roughly. “We were all alone. Argyrus was at the Assembly...and I stayed with...with...oh Radiance...” A broken sob escaped the femme’s lips and Soundwave was forced to let go for fear of hurting her, watching in surprise as she fell to her knees and completely shattered into pieces.

Her cries echoed throughout the large room, emphasizing just how truly empty the whole place really was. Every so often she stopped to cry out her creation’s name but no matter how loud she screamed, the tiny blue youngling never came.

Understanding washed over Soundwave and he stiffened. He wasn’t sure what to do, unable to do anything but stand there with his hands outstretched, powerless to do more than observe.

Rethelia managed to collect herself some time later, wiping her coolant stained cheeks and rising to her feet with her nose raised high in the air. She was still sad and broken, but she refused to show any more weakness in from of him.

“Condolences, extended.” He said, feeling just how empty the words rang.

The femme grimaced. “You don’t get to be sorry,” she hissed. “You’ve never been a creator. You have absolutely no notion of what it’s like to lose your only creation. To know that the tiny life you nurtured and cared for is gone...forever.” She sucked in a harsh invent, shaking her helm to dispel the emotions creeping up on her.

Before Soundwave could even think of saying anything else, Rethelia turned on her heels and disappeared back into the foyer. The sound of the door opening and slamming shut indicated that she’d left and Soundwave let out a sigh, the sound heavy and uneasy.

“Forgive her, she’s still in the process of getting over her grief.” The sound of the smooth baritone nearly mde Soundwave jump but he kept his feet firmly on the ground and turned to regard the owner of the voice.

He recognized the pale white plating and scarlet optics almost immediately; it was Aster, Argyrus’ personal retainer. He was standing on the top step of the staircase, one hand gripping the handrail as he stared the telepath down.

“Tragedy, significant.” Soundwave replied, optics narrowing behind his visor. “Emotions, understandable.”

Aster shrugged, “Perhaps.” He brushed away a few motes of dust on the rail with his fingers, smoothing them over the metal. “But I’m afraid that is a topic well above my pay-grade. Tell me, what services are you in need of?”

“Information.” Soundwave said immediately, beginning to make his way up the stairs. He stopped a couple steps away from the white mech and even then, he still towered over him. “Where is Reverb?"

Scarlet optics narrowed ever so slightly. “He is not here.”

Soundwave didn’t believe the mech for a second. He took one more step up, adding another inch to his height. “Dishonesty, not appreciated.”

“Reverb went to Iacon a few orns ago,” the retainer explained. “There was an incident he had to take care of, personal matters you see, and he left me and Rethelia to guard the house.”

Mention of the femme reminded Soundwave of another important matter. “Query: Radiance’s death, accidental or intentional?”

For a moment, Aster was silent and he glanced down as if trying to decide whether to talk or drop the subject. But he took a deep breath, looked up and said, “Master Radiance was murdered in his own berth. Stabbed to death.” He placed a hand over his chest, frowning. “It was the most horrible thing.”

“Who was responsible?”

Aster sighed. “One of the servants,” he said. “Crosswire. We’re not sure exactly what prompted the act but he has been taken care of.”

The answer did not sit well with Soundwave. Aster’s words were too mechanical, as if he’d rehearsed them in front of a mirror for orns, and he refused to meet Soundwave’s gaze for longer than was necessary. Then there was the topic of Reverb.

Where was he? Shouldn’t he be here, comforting his sister after the loss of her only creation? Was he really so insensitive as to put his plans ahead of his own kin?

A tiny voice in the back of his helm told him that yes, he would because Reverb had been the one who’d sought to use Soundwave instead of greeting him back into his small family unit when they’d been reunited. Pit, even when they had been friends back on his sire’s estate, Reverb had always proven to be the kind of mech who sought out compensation for everything.

Soundwave had been a fool to expect anything less.

Jazz had been right all along.

Jazz. Soundwave’s Spark twisted as he remembered his most recent talk with Ratchet. The medic’s questions had let him know that Jazz hadn’t made his way back to Optimus and Megatron because who else would they entrust with the sabotuer’s safety? If Ratchet had no idea where Jazz was, then neither did the two Cybertronian leaders.

Which meant Jazz was still missing.

And Soundwave had a decent idea of where he could be. Someone had tried to kill Ravage, after all, and when Soundwave had delved into her memories via the quantum bond, he’d seen bits and pieces of her last few moments before her injury.

Jazz’s voice, shrill and full of fear, begging for her to follow him. Then the sound of the gunshot and the static of unconsciousness had followed.

She’d been protecting Jazz from someone. Someone who’d been intent on killing Jazz. It hadn’t taken long for Soundwave to fit the pieces together and though he knew it was foolish to have made his way here without proper reconnaissance, he knew it had been the right thing to do.

If there was the possibility that Jazz was still alive...or if there was a need for information on the saboteur’s death, there was one bot who’d have the answers. And Soundwave desperately hoped that the information he was searching for fall into the category of the former.

“I’m afraid you must take your leave,” Aster said, bowing his head. “We’re under strict orders not to allow visitors until either of the lords return.”

Soundwave grimaced, “Soundwave, in need of information.”

“I understand,” Aster said, voice cold. “But you are not allowed in here. So go.” All modems of respect and decorum had disappeared from the retainer’s voice. Long ago, he’d been submissive and meek in Soundwave’s presence, treating him with the same twisted respect that all servants offered the masters of their house. But now he was being openly defiant, treating Soundwave with anything but hospitality.

Suddenly curious, Soundwave tried to step around Aster but the white mech shadowed him perfectly, moving to block his path. His optics burned with warning, upper lip curling into a sneer.

“Move,” Soundwave ordered, voice deep and commanding. “Now.”

“No,” Aster stated firmly. “As I stated, you are not allowed in this house.”

Soundwave’s patience snapped. He reached up to grab Aster by his shoulders and wrestled him to the ground, jumping over him as soon as he was down and sprinting up the flight of stairs. He let his battle computers jumpstart to life, fully expecting Aster to start screaming an alarm and for whatever was left of the guards and occupants to surge towards his location.

But as he ran down the familiar hallways, all he could hear was the sound of his own heaving vents and his footsteps echoing heavily through the large passageway. He made a few more turns, recognizing the path towards the guest wing he’d been staying at and increased his speed.

When he saw the familiar doors of his old room, he quickly pushed them open and came to a skidding stop in the middle of the berthroom.

It was empty, dark and smelling of the cleansers and polishes that he remembered having smelled on Jazz after he’d finished his cleaning rounds. The berth was made, sheets unmarred and any traces of either himself or the saboteur were absent from the room.

Jazz wasn’t here.

Sparkbeat speeding up, Soundwave ran out of the room and tried the adjacent rooms, forcing the doors open when the locks rejected him as he strove to catch a glimpse of the inside. All were in the same condition as his old room, freshly cleaned and empty and the telepath felt his ventilations stutter, processor beginning to ache as the careful control he had over his telepathy began to wane and the tendrils around his mind suddenly unfurled and shot out in all directions.

He could see and hear everything. From the sound of a tiny glitchmice’s pattering feet in the ventilation duct above to the buzzing of the lights on the bottom levels of the estate. Aster’s anger and exasperation hit him like a runaway train, growing in intensity with each step the retainer made towards his location. He heard voices he didn’t know, felt sadness and pain and anger from places he couldn’t pinpoint and it was all coalescing around his very Spark, choking it under all of its weight.

But through the haze of distorting sensations, something familiar suddenly trickled through. It tickled the back of his helm, sending a familiar twinge through his Spark.

He focused on that, drawing out all the unnecessary interference until there was only silence and that familiar pulsing rhythm echoed in his audials. His Spark twisted as he finally recognized it for what it was.

Slowly he rose to his feet, making his way through the hallways with that sound serving as his only guide. But before he had the opportunity to get in its vicinity, someone grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and he was pulled back out of his trance and back into reality.

Blinking, he turned around to focus on whoever had grabbed him and a low growl rumbled in his throat when he realized who it was.

“Reverb,” he said, static lacing his voice.

The red host mech grimaced, all affability absent from his features. “I’m the one who should be angry,” he retorted. “You stormed into my home, made my sister cry and threw one of my staff members down the stairs. You’ve caused quite the mess, Soundwave.”

“Negative,” the telepath growled, “Reverb, responsible.”

“For what?” Reverb asked, scoffing. “I’ve done many things so do try to be a little more specific.”

“Meister,” Soundwave said simply, hands clenching into fists at his side.

Reverb opened his mouth to retort but seemed to think better of it and shut his mouth with a grimace, turning to look away for a moment. But when his orange visor fixed itself on Soundwave once more, it glowed with blatant smugness.

“Meister?” the red mech said, laughing softly. “Or don't you mean Jazz?”

Soundwave stiffened for a moment, surprised. “Reverb, knows?”

“Yes.” Reverb murmured, nodding. “I had one of my men tail you two after you left for Iacon. They heard you screaming Jazz’s name mid-overload and all the pieces suddenly clicked into place.” Noticing Soundwave’s expression, he huffed and shook his he shook his helm. “Kidding. Honestly, I knew from the moment I laid optics on him. He really did a terrible job in reformatting because he kept those cute little audio horns and bright happy visor. Almost nobody sports those modifications now a day, really so it wasn’t too hard to put two and two together. But I wasn’t sure, and so I had a little talk with him. I got him riled up, put my hand on his arm and boom, all of his thoughts and memories were read like an open book. He was the long-lost Autobot saboteur and he was carrying your little bitlet.”

Reverb sighed, amused. “But he honestly thought you didn’t love him, you know? So, I thought to myself, I have a chance with you. When I noticed you were fragging him, I thought that was just you getting your fix of sadistic Decepticon hijinks. But then...” he grimaced. “You started caring. And I knew when you left for Iacon that I’d lost you. So, I did what I always do best.”

He reached out and brushed invisible debris of Soundwave’s shoulder. “I ordered one of my bots to kill him.”

Soundwave tensed, the revelation not even half as jarring as the nonchalance with which the red mech spoke.

Reverb continued. “But they failed. Because of that little symbiont of yours; how is she, by the way? Still kicking, I hope?” When Soundwave didn’t respond, Reverb shrugged and carried on. “Anyways, I thought to myself ‘wait, Soundwave cares about the little fragger. If I kill him, won’t I end up losing the only control I’ve ever had over him?” He smiled, “So I changed my plan. I got him back to the estate. I have him hidden, safe and sound.”

“Where?!” Soundwave demanded, hands reaching out to grip Reverb’s throat.

Reverb didn’t even blink at the sudden display of violence. “Now, if I tell you, that would ruin all the fun wouldn’t it?” He shook a finger in Soundwave’s face. “He’s safe, don’t worry. But he’ll only remain that way if you behave. So,” the red host mech tapped Soundwave’s hands, clearing his throat. “No choking, alright?”

Soundwave visibly shook, the desire to tear the red mech’s intakes out as strong as his yearning to see Jazz. He didn’t want to believe Reverb, because the mech had done nothing but lie to him ever since he’d arrived. For all he knew, Jazz was already dead and he was just holding his own guilty conscience over him.

But he remembered the tiny sound he’d heard moments before and all the strength seemed to leave his frame. His grip on Reverb loosened, but he didn’t let go.

“Before,” Soundwave said, voice struggling to remain firm. “I heard...something.”

“Oh?” Reverb perked up, genuinely curious.

“The Sparkling’s sparkbeat,” Soundwave murmured, voice cracking on the last glyph. “I heard it...”

Reverb smiled, “See? Proof. Everyone’s safe so let’s make sure we keep it that way, alright?” He tried to pull way but Soundwave didn’t let him. The red host mech’s lips pursed, visor flaring dangerously. “Let go, Soundwave.”

“Jazz’s Sparkbeat,” Soundwave said sternly, grip tightening to the point that Reverb’s ventilations stuttered as the memories returned. “I didn’t hear it. Why?”

That made an odd look cross Reverb’s faceplates. Soundwave increased his grip, anxiety fluttering in his chest. “Answer me,” he demanded.

A long painful moment of silence passed where Reverb said nothing. But then he said, “maybe you just heard wrong.”

“Negative,” Soundwave said, “Reverb, lying again.”

“Do you want to see him?” Reverb asked suddenly, “is that it?”

Soundwave nodded. “Soundwave, needs physical proof.”

“Let me go, then.” It took Soundwave a moment to reign his emotions under control but when he did, Reverb seemed all the more grateful for it. He rubbed his aching intake and hissed when he rubbed a sore spot. “See, Soundwave? Why the need for such violence when we can all be civilized.” With that, Reverb led him down the corridor he’d previously been walking towards, optics narrowed and frame prepared for the unexpected.

But the trip turned out to be mundane. No one could be found anywhere in the halls and the only bots they came across were two bots that were leaning against a large pair of doors with their arms crossed over their chests. They turned to regard them nonchalantly but upon noticing Soundwave they stiffened and that was when the telepath was able to get a good look at just exactly who they were.

“Makeshift,” Soundwave said, surprise etching his tone. His gaze went to the dark paneled femme that was the Shifter’s apprentice. “Flareup.”

Makeshift said nothing but Flareup hissed, baring her dentae like some uncouth mechanimal.

Soundwave committed their names and faces to memory, saying nothing to them in turn as he followed Reverb into the room. Immediately, Soundwave was assaulted with the smell of cleansers, layered with the faintest hint of fresh Energon and he felt panic rising in him once more. But before he even had a chance to worry, he turned his helm and caught sight of Jazz, laying face-up on a large berth and surrounded by pillows. He was deep in recharge, the soft even sound of his ventilations like music to Soundwave’s audials.

Relief made his knees weak and Soundwave took a step forward, intent on making sure the saboteur was truly alright. But a hand on his chest stopped him and the telepath snapped out of his reverie to look at Reverb in surprise.

“Look,” the red host mech said, exerting enough force to make Soundwave take a small step back. “But don’t touch.”

“Negative,” Soundwave intoned.

Reverb sighed, shaking his helm. “Please don’t make this difficult, Soundwave. You got your look. But don’t force me hand into doing things I do not want to do.” He snapped his fingers and immediately, a tiny pastel blue bundle emerged from the pillows next to Jazz’s helm and as it stretched and yawned, Soundwave caught sight of the familiar sharp edges and white optics of the tiny symbiont as it sat down and stared up at its master expectantly.

It purred, flared plating and flicking tail indicating its attentiveness.

“I do believe I’ve introduced you to Halux, right?” Reverb said, smiling at the tiny little feline. “The special one from the Sea of Rust?”

“Affirmative,” Soundwave said, the feline’s white optics turning to look at him with uncanny scrutiny.

Reverb chuckled. “I forgot to mention one little thing. Despite being expert little trackers, their small body size makes them prone prey to larger predators and so they’ve adapted with several defense mechanisms to help improve their chances of survival. The sharp little claws and armor are one thing but there’s one little thing that makes them a little more than dangerous.” He tapped the corner of his mouth with one finger, grinning. “Their oral lubricant. With one bite, they can inject enough venom to momentarily paralyze a coilviper. But if they keep their teeth in you long enough, they can pump sufficient venom to stop a fully stop grown mech’s Spark in a matter of astrokiks.”

He snapped his fingers, visor lighting up with glee. “Just like that. Now imagine what a bite like that would do to a carrier...” he shrugged. “I don’t know about you but that’s not something I’m too keen on finding out.”

Soundwave turned his helm around to look at Reverb, “Sparkling, innocent.” He didn’t like the way Halux was now rubbing his cheek against the side of Jazz’s helm nor the look of expectancy on Reverb’s face.

“It’s the creation of the former Autobot’ head of SpecOps and the Decepticons’ blackmailing communications officer. How innocent can it really be?” Reverb scoffed, “For all we know, it could grow up to be a murdering little psychopath and I’d be doing the world a favor in ridding it of its existence.”

Soundwave watched in mute terror as Halux yawned, displaying rows and rows of sharp teeth, and then proceeded to offer a tentative little lick to the side of Jazz’s helm. The telepath took a step forward, fully intent on launching himself at the little cretin and tearing it off of Jazz. It contradicted with his host mech coding, the part that refused to allow him to harm other symbionts but Soundwave ignored it.

He’d learned long ago that his coding wasn’t as perfect as he’d once thought it to be. The only thing that mattered to him, the only things that he cared about, were the bitlet and Jazz. Everything else could wait.

“Down, Halux.” At the sound of Reverb’s voice, the tiny symbiont took a few bounds back and flicked its tail in affirmation of the order. Reverb turned to look at Soundwave, “see? Nothing to worry about. Just do what I tell you and Jazz will remain safe. Your little spawn, too."

Soundwave knew he had no clear-cut way of verifying whether or not Reverb was telling the truth. It was a verbal agreement and Reverb’s word was anything but solidifying. But he was backed into a corner and regardless of everything else, he knew he wasn’t going to get Jazz out of this alive if he turned his back on Reverb.

He had no choice.

Gritting his dentae, Soundwave gave a single terse nod. “Understood.”

Reverb’s visor brightened and he reached out to pat Soundwave’s shoulder reassuringly. “I knew I could count on you,” he replied cheerily. He gave him a gentle push towards the door. “Now let’s go, we have much to get done and so little time to do it.”

Soundwave allowed himself to be herded but not before casting one last look at the recharging saboteur. Jazz hadn’t moved an inch since they’d entered and judging by the way his ventilations and Sparkbeat remain unchanged, he was still deep in stasis. But he was alive and that was all that mattered.

Somehow, someway, he was going to get them all out of this alive.

That was the silent promise Soundwave offered the saboteur before the door closed behind him and he was left in the company of two of his former subordinates and the mech he’d once considered a brother.

Reverb leaned in next to him, whispering. “Don’t worry,” he said. “So long as you hold up your end of the deal, you two will be given an equal opportunity to build your little family in the new world. You’ll make as many bitlets as you want and live like a Senator during the Golden Age.”

Saying nothing, Soundwave pulled away from Reverb’s grip, unable to stomach the thought of the red host mech’s hands on himself. Reverb seemed to understand and he made no more effort to cajole Soundwave with physical touches anymore.

It was all just business now.


	32. The Beginning of the End

_“It never made me love you any less,_

_all these lies and broken promises._

_Just left me bleeding and wounded;_

_Normal occurrences between you and me, I guess.”_

Megatron’s revolution had taught Soundwave many important things.

First, it was every mech for themselves. Despite the banner of unity that each faction had waved over their adherents, it was nothing but an abstract symbol that symbolized a coherency of ideas. It didn’t protect from the bullets and assassination attempts, and even if you stood on the battlefield with your closest ally at your side, they would always choose to save their own Spark when push came to shove.

Secondly, ideas were nothing without action. It had been Megatronus’ fearlessness and passionate desire for change that pushed him to fight back against the government of the past, shattering the invisible bonds that held all the lower caste bots down and enabling his words to actually mean something.

And third...third was that it took seconds for eons upon eons of civilization to be completely destroyed.

Soundwave recalled from history texts he'd gleaned that it had taken approximately sixty-seven million eons for the Hall of Records to be completely built. Its architecture had been tedious and complex and the architects had redrawn the blueprints several times when it failed to comply with the bulk and weight of the expensive alloys used for the outer structure. There was no saying how long it’d taken for the artists to paint and decorate the interior, making those beautiful crystal windows and etching the words of their history onto the walls. And the collection of knowledge? No living mech could even begin to fathom how long it’d taken to accumulate so many pieces of literature and innovation.

But it had only taken five nanokliks for the roof to be blown off, for the residual energy waves to damage the infrastructure and make bits and pieces of the walls and windows fall inside, crushing shelves of datapads and any unlucky mechs that hadn’t been quick enough to escape the blast radius.

He heard the sirens moments after an eerie silence swept over the area of the historical site and the telepath felt his Spark twist painfully as his intricate sensors managed to pick out the weak cries of wounded mechs from among the crackling fires of the rubble.

From his place atop a large industrial building ten kliks away, the reception was a little staticky but there was no denying the fear lingering in the voices of all those collecting around the burning building. Soundwave’s hands curled tightly around the now-useless detonator in his hand and he turned his helm away, unable to stomach the sight any longer.

Beside him, the lanky green mech he’d been paired up with gave him a sympathetic glance. He’d been a former Autobot during the war and it was probably that, coupled with the unease of Soundwave’s presence, that kept him from openly reveling in the success of their mission.

“Never gets any easier, does it?”

Soundwave said nothing and the mech seemed to take the cue and grew silent as he pulled out a pair of binoculars and continued with surveillance.

This had been Soundwave’s routine for the past few orns. Ever since he’d been roped into doing Reverb’s wishes, he’d anticipated some form of infiltration missions but the red host mech had proven to be anything but subtle. It had been a small marketsquare first, a tiny little collection of buildings in Tetrahex that was a hot-spot for intercity trade and bartering.

Reverb had told him it had been a test run, to see how the government and first-responders would react and how quickly.

56 reported casualties had been listed on the DataNet by the end of the orn and the Assembly had only sent in shanix and relief assets to the local government in response. Everybody was appalled and Soundwave’s careful placement of the bomb had authorities thinking that it had been nothing more than an accidental explosion and with time, the media had gone silent.

Needless to say, Reverb had been less than pleased with the ripple effect and he’d slowly begun to progress in his listed targets.

An Energon refinery.

Then a hotel.

Once, he’d tried adding a youth care center to his list of targets but Soundwave had adamantly fought against it, refusing to yield even when Reverb had dangled Jazz’s fate in front of his face. Soundwave blamed the twisting feeling in his vitals on his active creator protocols but he knew he was doing it more for so much more.

Soundwave had never been able to stomach the killing of defenseless younglings, even during the war. Mechs were one thing because they at least had the possibility of surviving and defending themselves but younglings?

That was a different matter altogether.

Eventually, Reverb had caved and changed the location to a local bar and the sense of relief that had coursed through Soundwave made him feel guilty. But he said nothing, adopting that stoic demeanor that had earned him his famed reputation among both factions during the war and doing what Reverb demanded.

He hacked into the citybuilding servers and stole building blueprints, his symbionts accessed bombing locations before the operation was greenlit and he was the one who ultimately triggered the detonator that set off each explosion, observing from a distance and reporting back to Reverb. Without him or bots like Prowl and Red Alert manning the DataNet’s security, Soundwave found it easy to enact his espionage without any obstacles barring his path. He erased any traces of evidence capable of linking the damage back to Reverb and made sure that the world remained in the dark of what was going on, feeding their paranoia and fear until it festered.

The Pit had broken loose on the planet after the second explosion, Optimus and Megatron scrambling to initiate damage control and assure the citizens that they were looking into the situation and doing their best to track down the mechs responsible. Media outlets bashed them, riots that once been sparse and spread out where now concentrated in the impacted major cities, some demanding action while others echoed the anti-government slogans that had been present since Optimus and Megatron had taken their seats in power.

Crime rates escalated in impoverished sectors, including Uraya and in affluent cities like New Vosian, the purist movement took the moments of disarray to reignite their hateful calls to action. The planet was falling apart, held together by mere seams.

The bombing of the Hall of Records was meant to be the catalyst that toppled everything down. And it had only been 15 orns since Soundwave had been coerced into being a part of Reverb’s plans.

The veracity of Reverb’s words was beginning to become hauntingly clear and Soundwave felt sick every time he was forced to deliver his reports back. But those feelings paled in comparison to the time Optimus had sent him an urgent message via his personal communication line, demanding, _pleading_ , for a response and Soundwave had ignored him.

There was nothing else he could have done.

“Xenon says that there’s movement in the Assembly,” the green mech said, snapping Soundwave out of his thoughts. “But other than a few more security guards appearing on the perimeter, there’s been no sign of the Prime or any of the other representatives.”

Soundwave grimaced. “Representatives, frightened.”

“Seems like it. Guess this hit a little too close to home.” The bot put the binoculars down and sighed. “It’s a pity. My mate liked going there to read every once in a while.”

The telepath said nothing, turning around on his heel and making his way back to the small box that held a couple stray packs of C4 and spare small detonators. He kneeled down and stuck the used detonator back inside, shutting it closed and shoving it into his subspace as he rose to his feet. His partner frowned, confused.

“Where are you going? We’re not done with our observations, yet.”

Soundwave fixed him with a stern look. “You, will continue.” And with that, he left the green mech to his own devices. Flying down was the easiest option but the chances that someone would see and recognize him were far too high in a city with so many bots so Soundwave took the stairs, weaving through janitorial underpasses and empty hallways until he came upon the lobby full of concerned employees, all morbidly watching their monitor screens as the events outside unfolded. It was easy to sneak out through them and into the streets and from there, Soundwave slipped down a maintenance tunnel and traveled through the waste tunnels to the outskirts of the city.

When he arrived back at the tiny little rundown apartment he’d temporarily called home, he was met with the concerned looks of his symbionts, who all rushed up to silently greet him with a collective sigh of relief. They’d been worried for him and sensing their genuine feelings made the toll of what he’d done a little less.

Downing a cube Rumble gave him, Soundwave went into his room and sat down on the berth, pulling out a small datapad. It blinked to life, displaying a dark green screen with a single messaging icon that was blinking to alert him that he had a few new messages.

Most of them were old, from contacts and subordinates Reverb had paired him up with but the newest one was from Reverb himself. It demanded that he get into contact right away, preferably via vid-link.

Soundwave let out a tired sigh but complied nonetheless. Reverb picked up on the first ring and the small datapad screen was soon being filled by the red host mech’s grimacing faceplates. Orange visor flaring at the sight of Soundwave, Reverb leaned back and crossed his arms.

“Pede told me you left him to finish up surveillance on his own.” His tone was suspiciously affable.

Soundwave didn’t bother lying. “Affirmative.”

“Why?”

The telepath pursed his lips, knowing he had no real answer. Reverb wouldn’t take kindly to the truth and Soundwave was not keen on letting him know just how much these jobs were affecting him. The less Reverb knew about him, the better.

But he was growing tired of all of this. “Unknown.”

Silence reigned between them. On the floor next to Soundwave’s, Rumble and Frenzy shared a worried look before fixing their host mech with worried gazes. Static crackled over the datapad’s speakers for a moment, followed not long after by the sound of shuffling and Reverb’s heavy drawn out sigh.

“You do realize what’s at stake, right?”

Soundwave resisted the urge to grimace. “Affirmative.”

A soft laugh pierced the air, clear enough that one would think that the mech it belonged to was in the room right with them. It put everyone on edge but the only indication that Soundwave was at all perturbed was a slight twitch of his fingers on the edge of the datapad.

“I don’t think you do, Soundwave.” Reverb said, voice soft. “I’m sure that you know the state the planet is in, sure. You’re responsible for half of the mayhem currently wracking the population. But,” he took a long pause. “On a more personal level, I sorely doubt you have any notion of the impact little stunts like this will have in the long run. We’re so close, Soundwave. So very close. Definitely not the time for you to be stepping out of line.” In the frame, Reverb leaned back in his chair, fingers threading together contemplatively in front of him. “I think you need a little reminder.”

The reaction was instantaneous. Soundwave surged to his feet, careful not to step on the symbionts sitting on the floor, and his visor flared to a dangerous scarlet hue. He didn’t say anything but even in his silence, it was easy to read what he was implying.

Reverb grinned, content to indulge the host mech. But after a while he waved a hand through the air. “Always jumping to conclusions. Sit down, I didn’t mean it in the way you were thinking.”

“Then how?” Soundwave asked, his curt tone quickly betraying his inner turmoil.

“A simple talk,” Reverb replied, smiling. “Argyrus has a good friend that’s been kind enough to offer his high-rise apartment in New Vosian for a few orns.”

Soundwave grimaced, well aware of who the other host mech was talking about. Argyrus had a lot of friends in the more well-off cities, purists who he’d never personally disowned even after taking office in the Assembly. He’d kept in touch with them, providing funds for the limited rallies they’d held and keeping the movement from ever truly dying out.

He should have told Starscream first thing when he’d found out. Conceited as the Seeker was, he had never been able to stomach their compartmentalizing ideologies. But it was too late for that now. Soundwave could only trust in the former SIC’s political and military savvy from this point forward.

“Soundwave, agrees.”

Soundwave shifted his feet, cycling a heavy ventilation. Reverb smiled, more triumphant than warm. “Don’t sound so down, Sounders. I’ll be sure to bring your favorite drinks.” He grinned, “think of it as a friendly reunion.”

“Understood.”

Reverb looked like he wanted to say something more but thought better of it, his hands tapped on the desk surface in front of him and he huffed softly. “Two orns from today we have a bit of downtime before the next phase of the plan. I’ll send you the address.” With no goodbye, the screen went dark and Soundwave stood silently in the middle of the room, hands falling stiffly to his sides.

Rumble and Frenzy hesitated for a moment, sharing a look between one another before slowly making their way towards their host mech.

“Boss?”

Tentatively, Rumble held out a hand and placed the palm against Soundwave’s leg, small fingers finding a seam and softly curling into it. Though the telepath said nothing, both symbionts could feel how he expanded his EM field to press against theirs, seeking the silent comfort that only they could provide. Together, they reach out hold onto him, supporting and warm, making sure that he doesn’t buckle underneath the weight of all his burdens. It doesn’t matter that they’re a quarter of his size or that their Sparks are but miniscule little specks against the bright expanse of his.

Long ago they’d perfected the art of comforting one another, learning how to synchronize their wave lengths and commune in silence so that the listening walls could never hear the depth of how much they needed one another. It’d become second nature after a few eons, a natural reaction that was instantaneous whenever one or the other found themselves fleeting.

Soundwave sank down to his knees, allowing Rumble and Frenzy’s small hands to grip his arms and their tiny helms to press against the sides of his own. They emitted a low rumbling tone through the tiny engines in their frames, tuning it to a rhythm that the telepath was familiar with, until it washed through him like a gentle deluge.

For a moment, he was weightless, helm submerged under the warmest of oils, and it was almost easy to forget the state of the world around them.

Almost. Because when Soundwave dared close his optics, it wasn’t darkness that greeted him but the gentle warm glow of a blue visor and an easy going smile that he’d all but committed to memory. There’s the familiar glimmer of adoration in the tinted glass, shining bright in the optics that lay just underneath it and the swell of longing that implodes inside of him is strong enough to pull him to the surface, gasping and coughing as if he were a drowning man.

When he comes back to reality, he’s sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest with both symbionts carefully held in his arms and the sound of their beating Sparks is enough to lull him back into a state of calmness. They wait, patient as ever, not daring to speak until his ventilations had evened out.

Frenzy gripped the edge of his docking chamber, strong enough to register as a small ping on his haptic net. “We’ll get him back, boss,” he breathed, voice determined. “Just you wait and see.”

“Yeah,” agreed Rumble, nodding. “We’ve survived worse, remember? And Jazz ain’t no pushover. He’s stronger than we’re giving him credit for.”

Soundwave doesn’t outwardly reply, instead hugging them a little tighter to his chest. As he lets the bond flow with pulses of gratitude and appreciation for their fervor, he quietly holds back the fear that’s had been digging into his Spark, unwilling to remind them of their unfortunate circumstances and the precariousness of their situation.

He hadn’t felt hope like this in a while.

It felt too good to let it be wasted. So, he simply closed his optics and held on tightly to Rumble and Frenzy.

~~~

Polyhex was one of the cities least affected by the riots rippling across the surface of the planet. Even at itst highest point, the streets had always been littered with debris and wayward mechs looking for something to sustain themselves, both impeding the traffic of tourists and industry commerce that dominated the city.

It wasn’t pretty but Sideswipe wasn’t one to complain. He and Sunstreaker had seen worse in the pits. So the smell of oxidization and rust did little to deter him but from the crackle of comms in his audios, he could tell that the other members of his party weren’t doing as well as he was.

“It’s in my slagging transistors,” a mech hissed, sounding like he was bouncing around in the background.

Another voice huffed over the comm. “That’s nothing, Triage. One of the buymechs near the center district touched my shoulder and I swear they passed on their fragging undercarriage rust to me. It itches.”

“That’s just your lack of personal maintenance rearing its smelly head, Axe” a feminine voice replied, low and rough harmonics unmistakably Arcee. “Stop complaining.”

Sideswipe rolled his optics, adjusting his position on the bench that he was currently sitting on. He had a news datapad in his hands but his optics merely skimmed over the words and all his senses were focused on his surroundings. The other bots were scattered across the platform of the shuttle station, blending in as best they could while they all waited for their transportation to finally arrive.

“All of you better shut up,” the red frontliner hissed, lifting a hand to hide his moving lips before pretending to brush off imaginary dirt off one of his cheeks. “You’re going to blow our cover.”

Silence dominated the comm before his internal unit buzzed an a small databurst was sent his way.

 _::It would have been faster if we had stolen the personal shuttle at the docks like I told you.::_ Arcee had a hidden talent of sounding snarky even over a few simple lines of code.

Sideswipe sent back his reply. _::Optimus told us we had to be discreet. He doesn’t know how far the Syndicate’s reach is and he wants to avoid stirring up any more trouble.::_

Arcee was silent for a moment and movement from the corner of his optic alerted the red frontliner of the femme’s presence. She was leaning against one of the canopy beams, arms crossed and helm tipped back to rest against the pole. Like all of the team, she’d changed her colors to neutral greys and her normally blue optics were a dark orange as they stared up at the sky.

_::You really believe all that slag?::_

Sideswipe shrugged internally. _::What part?::_

 _::The so called Syndicate. Jazz’s mission. Mirage’s disappearance. I don’t know about you but it sounds to me like Optimus is just pulling straws here.::_ She paused. _::We all saw Jazz die. There’s no way he survived the kind of shot that he got.::_

The red frontliner grimaced, remembering the grisly event from eons before. He remembered how the room had smelled after the shooters had been apprehended and the medics had rushed over to try to save Jazz. The sharp tang of gunpowder tinged with Energon was something Sideswipe had smelled far too often in the war and when Jazz had been shot, the smell had been all but suffocating.

There’d been so much Energon. So much internal fluid staining the floor as the saboteur had been propped up and wheeled out of the room. Sideswipe remembered how Sunstreaker had analyzed the residual images through the bond and very grimly stated that there was absolutely no way Jazz was surviving his wounds.

He was as good as dead.

Sideswipe hadn’t tried arguing with his twin because he’d agreed.

It made no sense for Jazz to still be alive. But Sideswipe had spent far too long under Optimus’ command to know when the mech was lying and when he’d briefed them on everything that had happened, he’d failed to see any of those telling tics pop up at all during the meeting.

Optimus’ voice had been firm and commanding but his optics had been darting to and fro with every word, looking around and behind him as one hand reached up to subconsciously trace the scars on his intake.

He’d looked afraid and that had been enough to pull Sideswipe away from the realm of disbelief. Arcee had only agreed to help when Prowl had stepped in to back up Optimus words, swollen and barely able to walk under the weight of his carrying state, but resolute with each word that left his mouth.

Sideswipe grimaced, shuffling in his seat as he recalled the bitter memories. No, he didn’t want to think about Prowl right now. It was already enough of a pain trying to drown out the emotions filtering through the block on their bond and the last thing he needed was to trigger his creator protocols that’ll push him into doing something stupid.

He took a deep breath. _::I don’t have a choice but to believe it.::_

Arcee huffed. _::I damn sure hope it’s true. Means there’s a way of tackling all this slag that’s been making the planet spin out of alignment. It’s special forces all over again.::_

A smile curled up at those words, nostalgia hitting Sideswipe like a runaway train. He remembered those orns as if they’d happened yesterday. Though the whole death looming over hadn’t been too much fun, it had all been so much simpler back then. There’d been just the war and the fight to survive and who the enemy was had been clear. No politics and wayward movements stifling up a simple existence.

Judging by the wistful look on Arcee’s face, Sideswipe surmised that she was on the same train of thought. But before he could think of anything else to say, the shuttle arrived at the station and came to a screeching halt in front of them. Immediately, all of them filtered into the tiny compartments, signaling their positions before the doors closed and the shuttle slowly chugged along.

They all took the time to prepare themselves, running diagnostics and double checking to make sure that all their systems were up and running as they should be. Arcee took the seat behind Sideswipe and for the entire duration of the ride, the frontliner heard the soft swish of her swords as she expertly flicked them between her fingers. She shuffled in her seat, moving to the window and the aisle, sitting properly and laying down, always moving and unable to keep still.

Sideswipe couldn’t blame her. He was on the same boat, working on encrypting their line of communication to ensure complete concealment. It helped him keep his mind off of Prowl and his twin and all the mess they were embroiled in and just how much there was still left to be discussed. Sideswipe could feel them through the bond, present but never pressuring for contact, and it was taking all his willpower not to break down the blocks and reach out to them.

As he’d done countless numbers of times, he pushed that stray thought to the back of his processor and kept his focus ahead.

It was easy following the instructions Mirage had left before disappearing and before long, Sideswipe found himself at the bottom of the slope leading up to the large estate, hidden in the shadows as he observed the ornate gates at the front entrance. It certainly lived up to its painted reputation with a grand architecture that seemed to stretch for miles, gleaming crystal sculptures that probably cost more to maintain than Sunstreaker’s own paintjob and a roof that glinted in the faux moonlight like shiny new credits.

Pretentious, old and expansive. There was no doubt about it, this was their destination.

He activated the modified lens in his optics and zoomed in until he could see the inscriptions one a few of the closer artistic sculptures past the gates. Movement immediately caught his optics and he locked onto a streak of white that turned out to be a mech with scarlet optics. He was making his way through the gardens, cleaning cloths in hand and smootching away tiny imperfections in the crystals. His face was haggard and tired but he moved with a grace that spoke of orns of experience.

A servant, Sideswipe surmised. Not uncalled for given the house’s size and who it belonged to. There were probably more inside.

His comm crackled to life. _::Got a pair of mechs on the east over here,::_ Axe reported. _::Judging by their small statures and plating, I’m guessing servant-class.::_

 _::Same here,::_ Triage added. _::Four femmes. Shiny and without a scratch on their armor. No sign of any warrior classes, though.::_ Faintly, the sound of rustling in the background indicated movement and a few moments later he replied. _::Slag. I got movement on the western side, down by the gate.::_ A pause. _::Looks like younglings.::_

Alarm coursed through Sideswipe and he grimaced, orns of experience dealing with Sunstreaker’s outbursts being the only thing keeping him completely still. _::Are you sure, Triage?::_

 _::I know younglings when I see them, Sideswipe.::_ Triage retorted hotly.

_::Link visual::_

Triage hesitated but knew better than to argue. _::Linking...::_

Immediately, Sideswipe was bombarded by the strings of code and data that comprised the mech’s visual feed. It was a different view of the estate, unhindered by the crystal overgrowths, and the view of the large mansion went uncontested. It was still and peaceful, until the flashes of colors broke the calm neutrality of the gate’s designs.

Sideswipe replayed that particular part of the feed over and over, focusing on the physical components of the tiny bots in the distance.

He’d had his suspicions before but after a few moments of analysis, they were no longer unfounded. Silently he cursed and immediately sent a databurst to all members of the operation, warning them to keep their distance.

Everyone responded an affirmative, albeit uneasily.

 _::They’re not younglings,::_ Arcee said over the main line, slowly and articulately. _::Are they?::_

Sideswipe shook his head. _::No. They’re not.::_ He cursed under his breath, the confidence in him suddenly wavering. The block on the bond faltered ever so slightly and immediately Prowl and Sunstreaker perked up, fied forgotten as they registered the trickles of fear from their third. Sunstreaker tried to prod at the block but Sideswipe quickly assured him he was fine and put it back up.

This was bad.

Optimus had warned them about this. Sideswipe had hoped that the Prime’s words would end up being nothing more than fair warning, that they wouldn’t have to face him and that this mission would prove to be nothing more than a simple in and out procedure.

But luck seemed to not be in anyone’s favor.

 _::Symbiont sighting confirmed.::_ Sideswipe said, making sure to speak as clearly as he possibly could. _::Which means that Soundwave is probably on the premise.::_

Silence. Then, _::isn’t he on our side, though?::_

Sideswipe wavered in his response, recalling how tired Optimus had looked when he’d stepped aside and subtly asked him to follow. He’d looked around once, twice, before leaning down to say, “this is a delicate situation, Sideswipe. There’s going to be a time where we will have to justify ourselves to the public eye and be blamed for things that we didn’t do. So, I ask you to be wary of who you kill. Any mech could be a potential witness.” He’d paused, looking almost pained. “There’s also a chance that you’ll run into Soundwave...”

“Don’t worry, Optimus,” Sideswipe had said with a determined nod of his helm. “I’ve tangoed with him enough times to know how to subdue him.”

A soft shake of his helm was all the Prime’d offered before softly saying, “if you see him, Sideswipe. You have authorization to shoot to kill.” There had been a curtness to his words that spoke of a deeper anger and Sideswipe had known better than to ask about it. He’d simply pursed his lips and uttered an affirmation of his commander’s orders.

When he snapped out of his train of thought and refocused on the present situation at hand, Sideswipe realized now that he’d been backing away from the house and the blips on his radar alerted him that the rest of the team was doing the same thing. Their unease and confusion was almost palatable, even over communication lines.

 _::We’re on recon.::_ Sideswipe said again. _::At least, until we get a more accurate headcount on how many mecha there on the premises and we have clear visual of Jazz and Mirage’s locations.::_

 _::But that could take orns!::_ Axe hissed.

Arcee’s voice immediately cut through the lines like a roar of thunder. _::Shut the slag up! Sideswipe is commander of this operation, Axe and I won’t stand by for your insubordination.::_

Axe stuttered, sounding ready to retort but something made him go eerily silent. He was still on the line, ventilations sounding, but they were short and shaky.

Sideswipe swallowed roughly, trying to look around from his position for any indication of trouble or his subordinate. _::Axe?::_

 _::...Is that...?::_ He sucked in a breath. _::Do you guys see that?::_

All optics went back to the estate, where the calm tranquility of the buildings had been interrupted by the sudden brightness of light flooding through the windows on the top floor. A shadow raced across the line of windows lining the front of the mansion before disappearing for a second, reappearing a nanoklik later in the form of a panting green pushing down a pair of balcony doors and sprawling into a heap on the balustrade.

Everyone in the group tensed, hyperactive sensors picking up on a familiar tangy smell that spoke of brewing trouble.

Slowly, the mech slithered forward, hands wet as they slapped against the tiled floor and struggled to grip onto the bars of the railing. It took him an agonizing few kliks to rise to his feet and when he did, everyone’s ventilations collectively stopped.

Because they recognized the mech.

It was Argyrus and he was covered completely in Energon. But the coloring was wrong, lacking the bright pink neon of spilled lifeblood and instead looking glassy and opaque. However, there was no denying that it was another mech’s blood, given how the representative was wiping away from his face with a look of disgust, spitting out goblets that had gotten into his mouth.

He turned to look back inside as the sounds of a commotion sounded and Sideswipe’s keen optics were able to pick up on gouges and deep scratches on the mech’s shoulders and face. But the tremble in his body didn’t seem to hail from his injuries, they were two minor.

Suddenly, a blood-curling scream broke through the somewhat quiet atmosphere and Sideswipe felt all the air rush out of his vents as his memory banks quickly connected the sound to an old memory.

That scream...he recognized that scream.

He’d heard it only once in his life and had prayed to Primus he would never have to hear it again. Then it sounded once more only this time it didn’t stop.

Sideswipe shot to his feet. “ _Everyone, move in_!”

Nobody argued against the order. Within moments, all bots had emerged from their hiding spots and were converging on the estate, weapons drawn and battle systems jump-starting to life.

 

~~~

**[Sometime before...]**

Jazz woke up slowly.

Sluggishly.

His optics were the first thing to online and when they did, they saw nothing but the dark and shadowed outline of the ceiling and it took his processors a moment to boot up and remind him of what he was seeing.

He blinked a couple times, groaning when the act made a small ache sprout in his helm and he reached up to press his fingers against his temples.

But he hadn’t even lifted his arm off the berth before something coiled around his wrist and held it down, something sharp digging into the nape of his elbow and applying a brief pinching sensation.

Immediately, a rush of cyberdrenaline coursed through his lines and all sensors fired up to full capacity in a matter of nanoseconds. He gasped, visor flaring bright white as he was suddenly assaulted by memories and sensations of both past and present.

Helm whipping to the side, he caught sight of the source of his newfound alertness and he immediately recoiled. Jazz tried to scramble away but a sharp pain new his lower torso made him halt and he bit his glossa to hold back a whimper of pain.

“You shouldn’t move,” Argyrus’ rich oily voice said from beside the berth, lacking its usual arrogant tone. “It won’t do any good to the youngling.”

Jazz’s free hand instinctively went to lay itself over his ventrum and he swallowed roughly upon feeling the sharply distensions in the protoform. Glancing down, he realized that he seemed a lot bigger than he remembered and small ripples of pain seemed to coursing through his entire frame with each small movements of the delicate platelets.

How fragging long had he been in stasis? He tried to wrack his processor for information but there was an odd blank space in his memory files, though he could faintly recall Mirage and the pain that’d followed his interrogation. It’d been an agony that had paralyzed him from head to toe, more so with fear for the creation that had seemed so adamant on not staying still.

The bitlet was quiet now, hauntingly so and only the occasional burst of wordless emotion through the bond let Jazz know it was still online.

“What are you doing here?” Jazz asked, tone careful as he turned to look at the representative at his berthside. He looked scraggly, unkempt, with his paint dull and lackluster as if he hadn’t even bothered keeping up with his regular maintenance routine. There were shadows in his optics and his sole attention seemed to be on the distended bump underneath Jazz’s fingers.

“Nothing,” Argyrus replied and his voice wavered on the last syllable. His hands clenched into fists and the movement made the utensil in one of them glint in the dim light. It was a syringe, now empty, with the tip tinged with the wetness of internal fluid.

Jazz’s inner elbow suddenly began to ache in understanding.

“Argyrus,” the saboteur said carefully, “what is that?”

It took the green mech a moment to process the question and a couple more to snap himself into responding. “Oh, this?” He lifted up the utensil, staring at it as if he were seeing it for the first time. “Tonic told me it was a jumpstarter.”

The silver mech froze. Jumpstarters was a laymen medical term for stimulants, usually used to increase the chemicals that shunted out pain receptors and increased awareness. Jazz was more than well acquainted with them; he’d used them religiously during interrogation sessions in SpecOps.

He was no chemical expert like First Aid but even he knew that the list of potential side effects was nothing to scoff at. Primus knows what it would do to expecting carriers.

Carefully schooling his expression, Jazz took a klik to perform a brief system check but the code he got back was riddled with static and unreadable glyphs. Fearing some sort of virus, Jazz activated his antibodies but even as they got to work on scouring his internal code, an all-clear alert pinged on his HUD.

His cyberdrenaline levels were elevated past the point of normalcy but that on its own wasn’t life-threatening. But even then, Jazz didn’t completely trust the diagnostics.

He still had no idea how the bitlet was doing, after all.

The sensation of a hand laying itself across his knee prompted him back to the present and Jazz froze as Argyrus leaned forward to rest his elbows on the berth, red optics bright as they focused on his ventrum.

“Younglings are amazing things,” the representative said, voice soft. Slowly, his thumb began to caress Jazz’s knee joint and slowly sent trickles of pleasure through his haptic net. “Delicate and in need of protection, but somehow surprisingly resilient.” He smiled and turned to face Jazz. “We’re very lucky, aren’t we?”

Jazz simply stared at the mech as the words slowly fell into place. When realization dawned on him, it took all of his training to keep himself from grimacing. Argyrus’ EM field was a mess of emotions and given the precarious nature of the situation, it was best to tread lightly.

But unfortunately, the lapse in silence went on longer than Argyrus liked and the smile immediately fell. “Don’t you agree, Meister?” There was a stony edge to his words, more in tune to the mech Jazz had come to know.

“Yes,” Jazz said, nodding. “Extremely so.” He subtly glanced around the room, searching for anything that could be used to defend himself. His optics went to the syringe now being held tightly in Argyrus’ grasp and his mouth went dry.

Five agonizing kliks of tense silence dragged on by before it was broken by Argyrus ducking his helm and pressing his forehelm against Jazz’s thigh. “I’m sorry,” the representative bemoaned, sounding absolutely distraught. “I shouldn’t be so cruel with you.”

Jazz’s attention zeroed in on the exposed neck cables visible over the rim of Argyrus’ collar flaring. “It’s okay,” he said softly, one hand slowly lifting to rest on the back of the green mech’s helm. It was awkward and despiteful but somehow Jazz managed to coax his hand into a gentle caressing motion, petting the soft metal with his palm and playing the part of attentive lover when every fiber in his being was asking him to do the opposite.

All the while, his attention remained on the syringe.

Argyrus’s frame began to shake as he softly began to cry and the wetness of coolant began to permeate the sensors on Jazz’s leg, becoming a nuisance. But he kept petting, murmuring softly and helm turning to and fro as he began to gauge his surroundings.

The sounds of soft sobs slowly ebbed into sniffles and when Argyrus lifted his helm, his cheeks glistened with fresh streaks of coolant. For a moment, he looked pathetic enough to pity. No longer was this mech the representative responsible for heralding the emergence of the purist movement, the bot who aided and abetted terrorists and willingly housed criminals of war in his own home.

He was just a mech mourning the loss of his creation.

Jazz sighed. “Radiance didn’t deserve to die.”

Red optics clouded at the designation and the green mech shook his helm. “No, he didn’t.” A pause. “He was good. Too good given who his creators were. Always compassionate and kind and lovely in spite of all the bad he endured and saw.”

It was impossible not to smile at the recollection because it was true. Radiance had been a nuisance but then again, which youngling wasn’t? They were still pure and untainted, too young to let the trauma and the pain twist them into something they weren’t meant to be.

Long ago Jazz would have scoffed at such thoughts. But being an expecting creator himself now, his creator protocols and lovestruck foolhardiness were messing with his processor.

However, he couldn’t find it in himself to really mind.

“—the Decepticon.”

Jazz glanced back at Argyrus, visor flashing with attentiveness. “What?”

Argyrus didn’t look at him as he spoke. “Soundwave,” he muttered, grimacing as if the designation left a sour taste in his mouth.

“W-what about him?”

Immediately, Argyrus’ face morphed into a scowl at Jazz’s brief stutter and when he turned to lock gazes with him, his optics burned with deep-seated anger. “You care for him.” It wasn’t a question.

Jazz, sensing the rising fury in Argyrus’ EM field shook his helm and feigned disbelief. “Of course not.”

“Liar.” The word was all but spat out between his dentae and Jazz stiffened as Argyrus half-rose, managing to look hulking and menacing as he got his knees onto the berth and loomed over the saboteur.

“Argyrus,” Jazz said, reaching out to place a hand on the mech’s chest and exerting enough pressure to keep a distance between them. “ _Don’t_.”

The green mech stopped for a moment before chuckling, the smile sprouting on his face not reaching his optics. “Don’t what?” He slapped Jazz’s hand away, the sharp sound of metal on metal ringing out in the large dimly lit room. “Don’t what?!”

Jazz shifted backwards, one hand curling protectively over his ventrum. “You’re going to hurt the bitlet!” he yelled, managing to twist his lower body out of the way in time to avoid getting a knee to the fuel tank. A sharp pain shot up his spinal strut at the sharp movements and Jazz bit his lip to stifle his gasp of discomfort, ignoring it long enough to wrap his hands around Argyrus’ wrists and keep him at bay.

Once upon a time, Jazz would have had the ability to overpower the larger mech with a few calculated moves of his frame. A leg around a hip, a skillful twist and flip and the tables would turn and no force on Cybertron would have been able to save the mech underneath him.

But the bitlet complicated things. No longer did Jazz have that impressive flexibility that had made him famous in the berth and battlefield and the strength of his wartime frame was now completely absent. It didn’t matter that he had his wits or his silver glossa because in situations where he was being faced with several tons of rage and fury, words held little effect.

Argyrus thighs caged Jazz’s hips in as his hands reached down and curled around Jazz’s neck, fingers holding at first but slowly tightening until warnings began to flash on the saboteur’s HUD.

Jazz screamed, fear and pain and absolute fury mixing into the sound. He tried to claw at the green mech’s wrists but the armor was too thick and Jazz’s fingers too big to dig into the seams and so the saboteur turned his attacks on Argyrus’ face.

“Radiance didn’t deserve to die,” Argyrus huffed, dentae bared inches from Jazz’s visor. His breath fogged up the glass with each uttered word. “He didn’t deserve to die!” The pressure on Jazz’s neck increased and the saboteur’s legs began to kick out when he felt one of the structures bend slightly under the force.

“It should have been you!” the representative hissed, oral lubricant spraying everywhere. “You and that filthy disgusting little abomination you’re carrying!”

Mind grasping at straws, Jazz went for the only defense he could think of. “It’s— _urk_ —yours!”

Argyrus shook his helm. “Once! But then you went and whored yourself to that filthy Decepticon! You tainted it, _defiled_ it! It’s no longer worthy of calling itself mine!” He allowed his entire weight to settle on Jazz’s frame, whether by accident or on purpose, it was unknown, but not even a nanoklik later the familiar shriek of tearing metal pierced both mechs’ audials and Jazz’s optics widened underneath his visor as an unfamiliar agony swept through his frame.

For a moment, both froze, the unfamiliar sound daunting and then suddenly Jazz’s frame arched off the berth and he screamed. The sound was enough to scare Argyrus and the mech’s hands uncurled from Jazz’s neck, shaking in confusion. Jazz screamed once more, louder, longer, more blood-curling, and Argyrus fell back, hands flailing for a grip on the berth.

As soon as his hand landed on the soft sheets, he found himself unable to find purchase and he slid to the side with a shriek of surprise. The tangy smell of Energon invaded the representative’s olfactory senses, prompting him to lift his helm up and he froze as soon as he caught sight of the berth underneath him.

Even in the dim lighting, it was easy to see that the once pristine sheets were now stained with Energon but it was blue, glassy and oily beneath his fingers, cascading down his armor like grease. It smelled horrible, far too sharp to be Energon but carrying the familiar sweetness of lubricant.

Jazz’s scream gurgled slightly, accompanied by the sound of gushing liquid and when Argyrus turned to look at the saboteur he felt like he was going to purge.

Energon was spilling out of the mech’s mouth, hands fisting into the berth as he arched and screamed. But that wasn’t the worst of it. His once round ventrum was absent of the smooth protoform and a gaping crude aperture now took its place. The armor’s edges stuck outwards, as if something inside had torn its way outside and as Argyrus watched, Jazz’s frame gave an unholy lurch and a pair of tiny bloody fingers peeked out from the hole to grasp the edges. They shook as they tried to hold on but the mess of fluids and Jazz’s spasms made them lose their grip and they disappeared back inside.

Argyrus screamed, flailing until he fell onto the floor. But he didn’t stop there. He scrambled to his feet and ran out the door, focused solely on getting away.

The representative blacked out for a few moments, managing to find himself standing on a balcony and looking at the bloody trail he’d left behind him. Pieces of protoform dotted the blue and pink streaks and Argyrus gagged, mouth barely managing to cover his mouth before he bent over and purged.

He could still hear Jazz’s screams echoing, sounding more garbled and static than anything. Running footsteps and gasps from the guards and servants were barely audible over the cacophony and just underneath it, the pounding of his own Spark.

He never even heard the pink femme climbing over the railing and onto the balustrade, vibroblades whirring as she paused and took a moment to observe him. By the time he’d caught on to the fact that he wasn’t alone, the butt of her sword was smashing into the nape of his neck and the world went completely black.


	33. In Memoriam

_“Love, what do you think they’ll say over my grave?_

_Mourn, perhaps, remembering all that I gave?_

_Or pity because in the end, I was the only one_

_I hadn’t been able to save?”_

 

Sideswipe had seen a lot of violence during the war.

He’d walked onto fields full of decapitated heads, faces frozen into looks of pain and aghast, into rooms full of gore with Energon dripping off the walls like fresh coats of paint whose smell occasionally still managed to trickle into his most recent nightmares. Once, he’d even seen a mech with their own internals in their arms, optics full of primal raw fear as they’d begged him for help he had not been able to offer before the pain became too much and they’d collapsed into a putrid pile of limbs and Energon on the floor.

But the scene in the estate chamber was nothing short of horrifying. Sideswipe had been sick to his fuel tanks very sparsely, the most recent being when he’d seen a youngling’s deactivated frame in the aftermath of an explosion. And now, the sickness was returning and he had to slap his hand across his mouth to keep himself from gagging out loud as he stood in the doorway and watched Axe and Triage try to keep the flailing mess on the berth from falling to the floor.

Triage was covered in a glassy liquid, smelling of Energon and lubricant, but he didn’t even flinch as his hands pressed a ripped piece of berth sheet against the aperture on the mech’s torso and tried to stifle the flow of internal fluids. Axe was holding the injured mech down by pressing on his shoulders but his hands were bloody and slippery and was slowly starting to lose control.

It took Sideswipe a moment to realize that Axe was looking at him expectantly, optic ridges furrowed and lips twisted into a grimace. He must’ve asked something but the mech’s screams were still loud and shrill, drowning out everything else.

“Sideswipe!” Triage’s normally soft voice boomed through the room and the red frontliner shook himself out of his shock and stepped inside, optics narrowed.

“Diagnosis?” He asked, optics wide as he gauged the damage. There was so much Energon, so much internal fluid, that it was hard to tell where the injuries began and ended. Axe’s frame blocked Sideswipe’s view of the mech’s face; a small blessing, really, because the frontliner wasn’t too keen on seeing the look of agony etched on their features.

Before Triage could reply, a hand reached out to grasp Sideswipe’s shoulder and dragged him back and out of the way. Before Sideswipe could react, a large blue mech then took his position, displaying the same calculated calmness that one could only attribute to seasoned wartime medics. Medium-build, with sharp angles and dark blue plating that seemed to ripple in the dim lighting; he popped open a small screen on his arm and immediately fell into role, taking scans of the injured mech.

“He’s in emergence,” he stated matter-of-factly, brushing away Triage’s hands and lifting the bloody textiles to check the wound underneath. Sure enough, as Sideswipe watched, the platelets around the wound shifted slightly and inside the darkened cavern, there was a small movement that had the frontliner’s helm snapping back in horror.

Axe cursed, turning to look at Sideswipe over the cusp of his shoulder. “Sideswipe, wasn’t Ja--?”

“—can you fix him, blue bot?” Sideswipe asked the blue mech, interrupting Axe mid-sentence. He didn’t care that the other bot fixed him with a confused look; the blue mech was still unidentified and Sideswipe knew better than to divulge information before verifying his identity. For all he knew, this could be the mech that Optimus had warned them about.

“My name is Tonic,” the new arrival intoned. “And yes, I can.” He pointed to a small cabinet on the wall behind Triage; a flick of his hand and then there was a small keycard being held out between his index and middle finger. “You. Go to the cabinet and pull out five packets of internal Energon packets, mesh cloths and coagulant tapers.”

Triage wasted no time in obeying, taking the card and using it to bypass the lock on the two doors. Inside, Sideswipe could see rows of neatly stacked medical bottles and equipment and Triage was quickly able to pick out what Tonic had asked, bringing in a couple bottles that Sideswipe quickly recognized as disinfectant and IV tubes.

He threw them at the foot of the berth and quickly began assembling the bits and pieces together until he had a decent IV constructed.

“Good job,” Tonic said and it took Sideswipe a moment to realize that the screams had tapered off into small moans, punctuated by grunts and weak gasps. The puddle of Energon on the berth had grown almost twice its size and Sideswipe felt panic well up in his chest as he became aware of the implications.

No mech lost that much fluid and kept on functioning.

Triage seemed to be on the same line of thought because he ran to the head of the berth and stuck the edge of the tube into one of the mech’s arms, messing with it until the glowing pink liquid was traveling from the bag and into the patient.

“Sideswipe,” Triage commanded, “come hold this up.” He gestured at the packet of Energon and Sideswipe nodded, subspacing one of his swords and trotting to take the mech’s place.

The smell was overpowering at such a distance and Sideswipe filtered his ventilations immediately, the uneasy feeling in his tanks returning full force. Another groan from the mech made him turn his attention to the berth and Sideswipe felt every strut in his entire frame freeze in fear.

Bloody as the mech was, it wasn’t too hard to recognize the blue hue of the flickering visor or the familiar audial horns situated on either side of the square helm. Sideswipe wasn’t known for his intelligence but his memory was impeccable and no mech on Cybertron sported that look much like the former saboteur of the Autobots.

If there were any doubts before, now there weren’t.

It was Jazz.

“Oh, scrap...” Sideswipe breathed and Axe’s lips pursed slightly as he realized they were now on the same page. But neither said nothing, focusing instead on the only two mechs with the medical training to even be of use.

Somehow, an array of surgical tools now littered the foot of the berth and pieces of the expensive sheets were being doused in disinfectant before being placed over Jazz’s legs and around the hands putting pressure on the wound.

Axe frowned. “What the slag are you doing?”

“What needs to be done,” Tonic said, optics glowing a little brighter as he glanced around the room. “Surgery.”

“In the dark?!”

“No,” Tonic said and he clapped his hands twice before the lights came on, the sudden brightness almost blinding. Now it was easier to see the carnage that lay before them and Axe grimaced. But neither said nothing as Tonic straightened and took a short breath, optics shuttering as if in prayer.

Triage looked at him curiously. “Are you okay?”

The blue mech took a moment to reply. “Yes,” he said, grabbing a large scalpel from the array of tools. “Just consulting my archives.”

“What?”

Tonic looked at Triage with a deadpan look. “Are you familiar with sparkling biology?”

“No.” Triage said, frustrated.

“Don’t worry, neither am I.” Tonic said. He took a shuddering ventilation. “But it seems like we’re both going to learn today.”

Sideswipe’s optics widened as Tonic moved the scalpel downwards and only his grip on the Energon bag kept him from diving in and snatching it out of the blue mech’s hands. “Hey, hey!”

All optics turned to him. “You can’t just cut into a mech without knowing what you’re doing! You’re going to kill him!”

“Sideswipe,” Axe muttered warningly.

“No!” The red frontliner shook his helm. “I won’t let you do anything that could put him in danger!”

“Doing nothing _will_ kill him.”

Sideswipe growled, “just who the slag are you to come in here giving orders? You don’t know him!”

“I’m the mech who’s been charged with his well-being for the past orn,” Tonic interjected, hands cutting through the air as he whirled to face the red frontliner; he wasn’t a particularly large mech but his armor fluffed out to give the impression of danger that had Sideswipe’s grip on his weapon flexing. “I am the one familiar with the patient’s medical file and their wishes.” He paused, trying to reign in his impatience. “I know that doing this is better than leaving his fate to chance.”

Silence reigned, punctuated only by the sounds of Jazz’s uneasy ventilations which seemed to have sped up as the Energon started to flow into him. But the bag in Sideswipe’s hand was now half empty and the puddle underneath Jazz was steadily growing in size. They were running out of time...and fast.

“He doesn’t have time to wait,” Tonic said, turning back to Jazz. “Every nanoklik we spend stalling is another millimeter of internal fluid filling up the sparkling’s ventilation systems and a higher chance of overheating and processor damage. We need to cut it out and drain the fluids if there’s even a chance for it to survive.”

 “And Jazz?” Asked Axe.

Tonic looked at him with a frown, an odd flicker in his optics that quickly tapered off into irritation. “Once the sparkling is out, we can focus on him.”

“No,” Sideswipe said, hating himself for every word that left his mouth. He was expecting triplets back home and here he was about to demand that his friend’s life be saved over the life of an unborn creation. His own creator protocols were urging him not to do it, to find another way but Sideswipe knew that there wasn’t any other choice. It was what Jazz would have wanted if he were lucid enough to talk. Sideswipe knew him well enough to know that this creation was probably nothing more than a front to aid him in his undercover work.

A necessary sacrifice for the greater good; it was what SpecOps had been all about back during the war. This time was no different.

“Our orders were to bring Jazz in alive,” Sideswipe said lowly.

Triage narrowed his optics, “that was before we knew he was in the middle of emergence, Sideswipe.”

“Doesn’t matter. Orders still stand,” Sideswipe retorted. He focused his gaze on Tonic. “Save Jazz. The sparkling can wait.”

Tonic looked ready to retort but something in Sideswipe’s face seemed to convince him to stand down. He sighed and nodded. “Okay.”

Nobody said anything, only watched intently as the blue mech lowered the scalpel and began to cut.

 

~~~

“You have your sire’s mannerisms. You know that right?”

Soundwave paused, lips poised over the rim of the cube he’d been drinking. His golden optics, exposed for the first time in orns, flickered to the red mech sitting across the table. Reverb was nursing his own cube in his hands, grinning as he observed the blue host mech.

“Negative,” Soundwave intoned, setting his imbibe down on the table. Reflexively, his mask and visor snapped back into place and he leaned back into his seat.

Reverb huffed. “That wasn’t an insult,” he grumbled. “It was a compliment.” He took a swig of his drink, lips pursing thoughtfully. “Nexus was always been so stiff and proper, vocabulary impeccable and his ethical coding only more so.” A soft smile played across his lips. “Though when it came to the topic of you, he turned into such a sap.”

Grimacing, Soundwave crossed his arms over his chest and glanced away. Helm craning, he could see past the doorway and down the hall into the large living room of the borrowed apartment. There were his symbionts, all sitting on the couch and pretending to be anything but eavesdropping on the conversation. Lazerbeak caught his gaze and one of her wings gave the slightest of twitches, indicating that everything was alright.

As alright as the circumstances could be, of course.

“My sire was an absolute slagger.” The vehemence in Reverb’s voice drew Soundwave’s attention to the conversation, more so than his words. All affability was now absent from the red mech’s posture and he was looking at his cube with a look of absolute disdain. “Always focused on when the next cube of high grade would get put into her hand and never caring about her charges...getting smelted was a good look for her, honestly.”

Soundwave knew very little of Reverb’s creators outside of the tidbits the red mech had shared during their previous friendship and his wartime searches had yielded nothing of interest. For Reverb to be willingly sharing such information meant one of two things: he was drunker than he admitted or he was using it as a segue way to recapture Soundwave’s attention.

Regardless of the reason, Soundwave knew neither options suited him well. He and Reverb had been holed up in this compartment for two orns, sitting and strategizing and talking and Soundwave had grown tired almost immediately. Reverb acted as if nothing were wrong, as if he weren’t heralding the start of another civil war and thousands of sparks weren’t extinguishing as a result of his actions.

He joked and laughed, touching Soundwave like an old friend even as he kept the telepath’s creation and mate locked away back at the estate.

Once upon a time, the title would never have crossed Soundwave’s mind but given everything that had happened between him and Jazz, the title was but a formality. Something told him that Jazz wouldn’t object to it, if he were here.

A soft touch to the back of his hand caught Soundwave off-guard and he jolted to alertness, scarlet visor focusing on the orange one that was now glowing with curiosity.

“Thinking of him again?” Reverb asked, pulling his hand back.

Soundwave sighed, “affirmative.” He pulled his hand back, plating tingling from where Reverb had touched him.

For a moment, he expected another off-hand joke from the red host mech but all he got in response was an impatient scoff. Upper lip curling in displeasure, Reverb said, “we’re on the brink of greatness and here you are obsessing over a mech that would turn their back on you the first chance they got.”

He was being baited. Soundwave could glean that much from Reverb’s harmonics. Every instinct told him not to react, to remain calm and collected in the face of adversity. But the statement gnawed at Soundwave’s processor, a part of him disagreeing vehemently while another acquiesced to the statement without so much as a struggle. Despite his better judgement, he allowed his mind to wander and his hands unfolded and rested on the table, fingers thrumming an uneven staccato that quickly echoed the turbulence of his own thoughts.

Would Jazz really turn his back on him? If Soundwave had let Jazz go to Iacon by himself...would he have sought Optimus and Megatron without so much as a backwards glance at him?

Soundwave wanted to say no. Jazz was a rational mech; loyal to those who earned his trust and a keeper of his word. Even if they were on opposing ends of the current conflict, Soundwave had done everything in his power to keep him safe. Surely, that would count for something?

But Jazz had a penchant for selfless heroics. He’d sacrifice himself in a Sparkbeat if it meant others would survive and if it boiled down between choosing the lives of millions versus his own, he’d choose the latter without blinking. Even if he loved Soundwave, his sense of duty would have spurred him to do the right thing in spite of it.

The logic made Soundwave’s vitals churn uneasily but when he spoke, he found himself defending the saboteur. “Jazz, loyal. Jazz, worthy of Soundwave’s trust.” His optics narrowed behind his red visor. “Reverb, incorrect.”

“How ironic,” Reverb said, leaning back in his chair. “the blackmailer vouching for the lying assassin. It would be adorable if it weren’t so pathetic.” The cube’s contents sloshed around noisily as Reverb picked it up and took a swill, intakes undulating as he finished it in two gulps. He let out a sigh, glossa peeking out to lick his lips clean of the residual imbibe. “You seem to forget that you hold very little power. Right now, the one holding all the cards is me.”

“Soundwave, has not forgotten.”

“Good.” Reverb smiled, dipping his helm.

An uneasy silence passed between them and for the sake of avoidance, Soundwave picked up his cube and drank the rest with intervallic sips. It was bland on his glossa, doing little to change his charge levels and it quickly lost its flavor. When he finished, Soundwave set it back down and made a move to get up. But a quick movement from Reverb’s end forced him to halt.

“Would you like another?”

Soundwave resisted the urge to roll his optics. “Negative. Soundwave, satisfied.”

Reverb tilted his helm, analyzing him for a moment before shrugging. “Well, then, if you’re sure.” He tilted his nose up in dismissal. “We have two joors until we have to go meet up with our contact so do try not to make a mess of the apartment while you wait. It’s a loan.”

Contact. Right. Soundwave had almost forgotten about that. The mech that had hired Reverb, that had been one of the masterminds behind everything, was going to be meeting them. His name had been omitted from Reverb’s explanations and so Soundwave had only gleaned bits and pieces of the mystery bot’s persona. It was a mech and judging by the locations Reverb always went to meet with him, he was someone with enough social mobility to move between city states.

It was easy to guess a security figure, like an Enforcer or civil servant. But Reverb had a certain disdain for those mechs, if his relationship with Riot was anything to go by, and he always laughed and smiled when talking about this particular contact.

A clear indication that Soundwave had to look higher up the social hierarchy. Another politician, perhaps? Soundwave knew very little of all the currently elected representatives apart from Argyrus and his former war peers, his focus having been divided at the time. But the thought that more bots intent on toppling everything situated were so high up in the ladder of power made him uneasy.

The more Soundwave learned, the least hopeful he became of the possibility of Reverb’s failure. Like Megatron’s revolution, it had momentum and fervor. But unlike his former leader’s, Reverb’s wasn’t clouded by a lack of military savvy or influx of emotions. He had a certain apathy that made him perfect for his role, the absolutely perfect totalitarian.

“Soundwave?”

The telepath shook his helm, realizing he’d said nothing in response to Reverb’s warning. He uttered a quick affirmative and began to make his way to the living room but Reverb clicked his glossa disapprovingly, stopping him in his tracks.

“Don’t misjudge my capacity for compassion,” the red host mech said, field extending slowly and dangerously towards Soundwave. “Just because I’ve forgiven your little transgressions in the past doesn’t mean I will again. Remember, your little spawn’s due in the next decaorn and your spy hasn’t had his emergence codes installed yet.”

Soundwave froze, the reminder chilling the Energon in his lines.

Reverb grinned. “Time isn’t on your side, my friend. Remember that.”

“...understood.”

The absolute lack of fire in Soundwave’s tone seemed to satisfy Reverb and he focused his attention on finishing his cube. “Good. I’d hate to be forced to remind you of—of...” Reverb trailed off suddenly, visor flickering once, twice before dimming almost completely. Soundwave immediately stiffened, feeling the red host mech’s field snap back like a rubber band and leading the telepath’s completely in the dark.

Something had happened. Something big and given how Reverb’s optics were widening behind the tinted glass of his visor, it wasn’t good.

Before Soundwave could ask Reverb what was the matter, the red mech was rising from his chair and stalking off down the hall. Soundwave quickly followed suit, keeping pace as they emerged into the living room and were met with the surprised faceplates of the four symbionts.

“Something up?” Rumble asked, visor staring up at the red host mech that’d stopped in the middle of the room.

“Shut up, you little ingrate.” Reverb hissed, pressing a finger to one of his audials. His chestplate parted and a red blur popped out, Asynchronous transforming mid fall and landing dexterously on his feet.

The red symbiont glanced around, offering a cursory nod in Rumble’s direction. Rumble sneered.

“I need answers, Synch.” Reverb said forcefully. “Now.”

Asynchronous looked around uneasily, gaze landing on the blue telepath standing behind his host. “Here, master?”

The title made Soundwave and every single one of his symbionts cringe.

“Yes,” Reverb replied, hands on his hips. He glanced back at Soundwave with a sneer. “We’re partners working towards the same goal, after all.”

Asynchronous sighed. “We got a few rogues on the outskirts.” He said, arms crossing over his chest. “Tonic’s AWOL. Rethelia’s MIA.”

Reverb took a long pause. “And Argyrus?”

The red symbiont’s tone changed to something darker. “Where else? Messing everything up, of course.” He closed his optics, helm twitching slightly as if he were communicating with someone unseen. When he opened them, there were traces of panic on his features. Reverb obviously picked up on them because he immediately reached down to pick up the symbiont, not bothering to be gentle, and whisked him away to the small adjacent office. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Soundwave standing with a suspicious air around him.

Rumble jumped off the couch, scurrying up to Soundwave’s side. “Did you catch a whiff of Asynchronous field just then?”

Soundwave nodded. “Yes.” When the two mechs had walked past Soundwave, the telepath had caught a whiff of the tiny red symbiont’s EM field. There’d been unease and frustration, both easily discernable by the tiny bot’s body language. But as soon as Reverb had asked about Argyrus, it had morphed into fear.

Deep, genuine fear.

Voices drifted in from the room both had disappeared into, muffled only by the steel door that separated the two. Synch’s voice deep timber spoke once or twice but it was lost in the constant tirade of Reverb’s throatier baritone.

Rumble placed his hand on Soundwave’s leg, prompting his attention. “So what’s the plan?”

“Plan?” Frenzy asked, jumping down to join his brother. He cast an anxious glance at the closed door, visor uncertain. “You know we can’t do anything!”

“Jazz would rather we try than continue to be at that slagger’s beck and call.” Rumble retorted, turning to look at his twin. “He’d understand—!”

Before Rumble could finish, the door opened once more and Reverb stalked out determinedly, Asynchronous trailing behind with a nervous expression on his face.

“There’s been a change of plans,” Reverb announced succinctly. “Which means our little vacation has come to an end.”

“This was a vacation?” Frenzy muttered under his breath.

Reverb ignored him, focusing on Soundwave. He subspaced a datapad and handed it to the telepath. “You’ve got new orders.”

Soundwave took the device, turning it on to read the contents. Immediately, he stiffened and looked up at Reverb, visor flaring and all but begging for confirmation. Reverb nodded resolutely.

“It’s unorthodox, I know. Maybe even a little unsavory. But it must be done.” He smirked. “You can handle it, can’t you Soundwave? In the name of family?”

Now what was Soundwave supposed to say to that? Even Rumble and Frenzy knew better than to argue, the aerials like silent statues from their perches. Soundwave had no other choice.

He gave a single terse nod of affirmation. Glancing down at his symbionts, he popped open his docking chamber and urged them inside. The aerials immediately complied, as did Frenzy but Rumble lingered, looking visibly torn. He glanced at Reverb, mouth curled into a sneer before turning to face his host mech.

“Boss...” He whispered, helm giving the tiniest of shakes. “Please.”

“Rumble, desist.” Soundwave said forcefully and the tone alone was sufficient in getting the symbiont out of his momentary rebelliousness. He said no more as he transformed and allowed himself to be tucked away. Soundwave didn’t linger to watch the amusement lingering on Reverb’s face; he pivoted on his heels and stalked towards the balcony, which was specifically fitted for fliers to come and go as they please, and took off with the echoing boom of his heel thrusters.

He didn’t look back.

In the luxurious apartment, Reverb watched the telepath go until he was but a blue speck in the distance and then turned his attention to the symbiont loitering at his feet. With a not so gentle nudge, he forced Asynchronous’ attention on him.

“Be a dear and let Riot know that we’re moving on to phase three of the plan, would you?”

Asynchronous’ optics widened. “Already? But Soundwave’s objective hasn’t been--!”

Orange visor flaring dangerously, Reverb put his hands on his hips. “Are you questioning me?”

“No, master,” the symbiont responded quickly, dipping his helm. “I’ll let Riot know.” He made a move to go back into the office but stopped to look at Reverb over his shoulder. “What do you want me to tell him, specifically?”

Reverb chuckled softly. “Tell him to make as big a spectacle as he possibly can. Tonight warrants nothing but the grandest of celebrations.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It's been a while, hasn't it? I apologize for the delay and the shortness of this chapter but I've hit a bit of a financial rut and have been working on some commissions to try to keep my head above water for the last leg of this year. Updates are gonna be slow going, unfortunately and I offer my deepest apologies for the inconvenience. But I will do everything in my power to keep this going; we're in the home stretch and there's so much I'm dying to get to!
> 
> If any of you are interested in helping me out (commissions, coffee, etc) y'all can check out my Twitter for more information: [here](https://twitter.com/itzenthusiasm)!


	34. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes finally make it home. But at what cost?

_“Tonight_

_the silence is talking_

_and it tells me,_

_that you’ve left me with_

_nothing.”_

 

Jazz couldn’t remember the last time he’d been able to recharge so profoundly.

Maybe there’d never truly been a time like this, where silence and peace swaddled him in darkness and kept the turmoil of the outside world at bay. It had always been about survival, before and during the war, and he’d always been forced to keep his back to a wall, one optic trained on the door and a vibroblade curled neatly into the palm of his hand.

Prowl had told him he would eventually need to grow out of that habit because one of these orns, a bad memory influx was going to leave that vibroblade buried in some unfortunate mech’s chest and Jazz would have no one to blame but himself. He’d meant in jest, of course, because he himself slept with a loaded rifle tucked into his subspace and had no room to judge.

But then the war had come to an end. And the dangers that Jazz had feared never went away. Murderers still stalked darkened alleyways, with charismatic smiles and warm optics that put unsuspecting Sparks at ease and liars and thieves still continued to lust after what wasn’t theirs and take what they wished.

It wasn’t all just a by-product of war and a broken system anymore. All of it was just a part of their nature. Yet there they stood, critiquing humankind for their self-destructive tendencies and backwards social policies. Turns out they weren’t so different after all.

Even with that knowledge on his mind, Jazz’s Spark was absent of any heavy feelings. He was strangely at ease, no pain or uncertainty clouding his mind. It was odd, to say the least. Not odd enough to jumpstart his battle systems to life but certainly sufficient to stir him into the beginning of consciousness.

His visor was the first thing to boot up, wartime coding bypassing the arduous warm-up cycle, and in the time it took him to open his optics, it was flickering brightly with attentiveness. He shuttered them a few times, adjusting to the light, and then finally focused on the softness of a blue pillow. The textile covering it was old and rough but it smelled clean and Jazz cycled a deep ventilation, happily reveling.

Not a moment after, he turned his helm to scan his surroundings, a content smile on his face. Grey walls, barren of anything except the occasional Cybertronian band poster and a small window, surrounded him on all four sides. There was a small desk in the furthest corner, just beneath the window and it was littered with bits and pieces of what looked like tools and musical instruments. An Energon dispenser was bolted into the wall next to it, nozzle caked with uncleaned residue but bubbling away as it sterilized the grainy looking blue liquid it had in its visible tank.

Jazz’s fingers clenched into fists, prompting him him to glance down and observe the berth that he was in. He recognized the light blue material, the worn edges of the sheets and patches in the blanket stirring his memory banks into awareness.

This was his home. Or had been, that is. Long ago in Polyhex he’d garnered enough credits to rent out a tiny little apartment in the gutters and he’d worked to clean and furnish it until it became his safe haven from the ghastly world outside. One step inside and it had been easy to imagine he was back in Iacon or Crystal City, far away from the festering underworld he’d called home.

But it had been destroyed during the bombings. A Decepticon missile had strayed its course and fallen into the lower level, decimating the family of three that resided there and creating a domino effect that had brought down the entire building down. Jazz had returned home to a pile of smoking burning rubble, remnants of his life forever lost in the fire.

It’d been the thing that had spurred him to finally move out of the city. Towards Decepticon and Autobot controlled territories, neutral run refugee camps and finally to that Energon refinery in Kalis.

The fact that Jazz was sitting here in the middle of it was proof enough that something was amiss.

Light footsteps to the right prompted Jazz to turn to look at the door in time to see it open and he tensed upon seeing the mech it revealed.

It was him.

Suddenly, everything clicked into place and that heavy feeling settled into his gut like a serving of badly seasoned Energon gummies. His optics traced over the familiar black and white planes of his old frame, lingering a little too long on the blue and red racing decals that decorated the protruding white chassis. Gods, he missed his old frame.

“I see you’ve caught onto what’s going here.” The data-copy said, sauntering into the room without the usually chipper sway of his hips. His lips were pursed into a thin fine line and his visor was dimmed to its lowest setting.

Huh. Jazz never took himself as one for self-pity.

“Can’t say I’m enthused, but yeah,” Jazz shrugged, scooching back to give the data-copy of himself room to sit. “I know.”

It took a seat, the berth jostling a bit underneath it’s heavier frame. “Good, then that saves us the trouble of having to explain ourselves.”

“Sure does,” Jazz said, smiling. But the smile was far too forced and it fell almost as soon as it came. He watched as the data-copy took out a small datapad and turned it on, opening a blank document before turning to look at his expectantly.

“Are you ready?”

Hesitating, Jazz shook his helm. “Not really.” His memories were starting to come to him now, bit by bit, as he recalled everything that had gotten him here in the first place, he felt his chest constrict and a lump form in his throat. He sincerely doubted he would ever be ready.

“That’s fine,” the data-copy said, offering a sympathetic pat to his knee. “Take all the time you need.”

Jazz swallowed roughly, nodding. He glanced up at the ceiling, at the familiar cracks and dents that had once eased him into recharge, and he hated how they somehow seemed to form a familiar face. Even if the crude lines did little justice to the natural clean geometry of Soundwave’s face, Jazz had enough of an active imagination to make it work. He smiled sadly and glanced away, towards the little desk he remembered spending so many joors at.

Without thinking, he got to his feet and walked over to it, visor brightening as he recognized the small six-stringed harp he’d been building from scratch. He’d never gotten the last string to properly sync with the others and so he’d never worked up the courage to play it.

Seeing how the end was near, now seemed as good a time as any. Picking it up, he weighed the familiar warm metal in his hand and smiled as it melded perfectly to his grip. It was so light and if he held it up to the light, it glistened real pretty too.

He took a moment of pause, the fingers of his other hand poised over the strings then very slowly thrummed them together.

The soft notes seemed to echo throughout the whole room, soft and deep and melodious, a perfect symphony.

“Beautiful,” the data-copy said, smiling when Jazz turned to look at it. “Never imagined it would play.”

Jazz huffed, “Imagine all the bots I could have swooned at the city-center with this. Probably could have ditched Polyhex before the bombings even happened.”

The data-copy nodded. “Perhaps.” Its gaze flickered to the datapad it was holding for a brief nanoklik and Jazz knew that was a subtle indication that they should get things moving. Jazz sighed and retook his position on the berth.

“We running out of time?” He asked, almost afraid to know the answer.

“Yes,” it replied, nodding. “I’m afraid we can’t afford to wait any more.”

“Oh.” Jazz sighed, briefly shuttering his optics. “Okay.” Both pretended not to hear the way his voice shook.

The data-copy nodded once, cycling a ventilation before beginning. “Autobot Jazz, as per standard SpecOps protocol, I am here to document and index all of the necessary information relevant to the mission you have taken. Your cover has been compromised and your Spark has entered the final stages of extinguishment. Within a couple joors, your Spark will stop. Within nanokliks following that, your processor will cease to function as well.” A pause. “You, like all SpecOps members, have a special storage unit in your processor that can contain data information for a finite amount of time, which can be accessed via mneuosurgery, dataport interfacing or lobotomy. Your superiors know of this unit’s existence and that ensures that your mission is not a failure.” It looked at Jazz directly in the optics. “Can you confirm that any and all data you transfer to the unit is uncorrupted and truthful?”

Jazz nodded, “yes.”

“Then let’s begin.” It wrote down something on the datapad and held it towards Jazz, a tiny port opening up near the top. “Please plug in and begin the necessary transfer.”

The saboteur didn’t hesitate in opening up his interfacing panel and unspooling the chord from his arm, plugging the connector in. He went through the necessary verification and handshake, pausing only when he was given the all clear to begin.

He shared a look with his data-copy. “Are you sure there’s no hope for me?”

It stared resolutely back at him. “Do you really want an answer for that?”

Jazz thought for a moment and sighed again, the sound heavy. “No, I guess not.” Then he got started.

He began with his talk with Pion, condensing memory files that pointed to Argyrus involvement and then those of Frenzy alerting him of the presence of explosions in the vents. He compiled a list of every single interaction he had with Argyrus after that, from TC and Blue’s bonding to the orn the representative had tried to get under his panels in a spare berthroom. Every whispered conversation between Argyrus and Aster, the speculations and affirmations of the staff.

And then finally, Reverb and Rethelia. It was hard to find memories that weren’t tainted by fear but somehow Jazz managed to find enough to paint the red host mech and his sibling for what they really were and though he knew there was little chance that they’d ever see each other again, he couldn’t help feel triumphant of the fact that even a small indication of their guilt would continue to exist in the world.

Jazz finished and started to disconnect but the data-copy stopped him, its hand cold as it settled over Jazz’s.

“What?”

It grimaced. “You’re not finished.”

“I am.”

Shaking its helm, the data-copy replied, “no, you are not.” It let go of him and settled back. “You haven’t uploaded any files of Soundwave’s involvement.”

Jazz swallowed down the emotions that bubbled up at the mention of the telepath, shaking his helm resolutely. “There’s nothing to say. Soundwave didn’t know that Reverb was planning on usurping the government. He didn’t know that Reverb was planning to murder his way to the top. He didn’t know anything.”

“What about Uraya?”

Silence met its words as Jazz recalled the city and all the memories it entailed. Then he scowled. “What about it?”

“Your first mission,” the data-copy said slowly, enunciating as if he were speaking to some petulant youngling. “The one in which you were nearly blown to smithereens. Remember that one?”

“Hey, man, leave it be.” Jazz grimaced. “There isn’t anything more to talk about.”

“Soundwave blatantly opposed going to the city in the first place. He berated you for following leads and questioning the validity of the mission. Why is that? If he truly had no idea, then why did he try to push you away? Why call you a berthwarmer behind Wycom’s and then claim that he loved you the next time you were reunited?”

Jazz opened his mouth to retort but something in the data-copy’s words seemed to snap him out of his argument and trail into silence. He swallowed roughly, looking away as his visor dimmed and his processor sorted through the information at the speed of sound. When he looked up, the resolution he’d displayed was overshadowed by a look of uncertainty but even then, when he spoke, it was to defend the telepath.

“Guess I’ll never know,” he said, smiling without any mirth. “But there’s one thing I’m completely sure of. Regardless of whatever was driving Soundwave at the beginning, in the end, I know that he loved me.” Breath hitching, one hand went to his ventrum, which was now completely flat. “Loved us.”

“That isn’t relevant to the mission,” the data-copy replied, noticing how the saboteur’s words were transcribing into the datapad.

Jazz grimaced, “It’s relevant to me,” he retorted. Snatching the datapad from the data-copy’s grasp, he opened up a new file and began a new download, ignoring the warnings that the data-copy yelled at him. He closed his optics, scourging through his memories as fast he possibly could. Picking through the pain and deception, he found the ones that still made his Spark sing and transferred them through. They were simple, minute, memories of the way Soundwave’s wax had smelled, his quiet strength, the warmth of his hand resting over his ventrum as he felt the tiny creature they’d brought into existence. His voice, sure and resolute, as he reminded Jazz that he was family, that no harm would ever befall him or the bitlet as long he was around.

It was the little things that could not be fabricated. Tiny slivers of truth that had convinced Jazz that there could have been a future, even in the face of their circumstances. Even if that possibility was now non-existent, Jazz remained sure.

Hopefully Soundwave would learn of its existence, someway, somehow. And though Jazz adamantly did not believe in Primus or the Afterspark, he was willing to hope that it did if only because it filled him with the hope that he and the bitlet would see Soundwave there once more.

He paused, smiling softly and proceeded to add one more little line of code. Then he unplugged from the datapad and handed it to the data-copy who begrudgingly accepted it. Skimming through it, he scoffed and pointed at the single glyph at the bottom.

“What is that?”

Jazz’s smile brightened. “A name.”

“For who?”

A single hand came to rest over the saboteur’s abdomen, memories remind him of the warmth that he could no longer feel.  “The bitlet. My sire used to tell me you needed a name in order to enter the Afterspark and though I think that’s a load of slag, I’m not risking my bitlet’s Spark on anything.”

The data-copy frowned but slowly, the lines etched around its mouth slowly smoothing out. Something of an amused half-twitch crossed its lips before it shook its helm. “It’s a nice name. Short but...sweet.” A small rumble shook the walls of the room, causing a few stray tools on the desk to tumble onto the floor with soft pinks. Jazz looked around, optics wide but the data-copy was unfazed as it put the finishing touches to the datapad and rose to its feet.

It walked to the desk and opened up one of the drawers, depositing the datapad inside and shutting it without a sound. “It’s done.” Another rumble forced it to grab the edge of the desk to keep itself balanced and it offered Jazz an understanding glance upon noticing the way he fisted his hands into the sheets.

“It’s okay,” it said softly. “You’re unconscious. When you pass, you won’t feel anything.” They both knew the words held more pity than truth but it didn’t seem to matter.

Jazz waited until the tremor stopped before letting out an uneasy breath. “Okay...” He reached an arm underneath the berth and pulled out a small green cube, cracking it open and downing it in one gulp. It burned his intake the whole way down but the gentle buzz it offered was definitely worth it. Tossing it on the floor, he curled onto his side on the berth, back to the door.

“Can I ask a question?” Jazz asked, not looking at the data-copy.

“Sure.”

“I know I assigned the program to only produce data-copies of ourselves to make it easier to document everything without letting our emotions getting in the way but,” he paused, trying to think of a way to phrase the question on the tip of his glossa. “Do you think, or can you, y’know--?”

The datacopy huffed in amusement. “If it’s what you need.” It let go of the desk and made its way over towards the berth and as Jazz listened, the soft footsteps morphed into heavier familiar ones that made Jazz’s Spark swell in anticipation.

He didn’t open his optics as the berth jostled under the new added weight and he kept his optics closed as a familiar arm wrapped around his shoulders and pulled him towards the chest of a warmer and bigger frame. But when he inhaled and the smell of that well-known wax invaded his olfactory senses, he forced them open and nearly sobbed as he was met with the plexiglass of Soundwave’s docking chamber. He knew it wasn’t the mech he loved, it was just a coping mechanism that his programming had provided, but that didn’t stop Jazz from pressing against the mech as closely as he possibly could.

“Play me something,” he murmured, lifting his face and pressing it against the warm neck cables of the telepath.

“Query, what would Jazz like?” The monotone was less melodious than the original but it made Jazz’s ventilations hitch.

“Surprise me,” he said, smiling. Jazz didn’t fear the silence that followed, listening intently to the hum of the industrial frame beneath his fingers, the beating of a Spark he knew like the back of his hand, and the mechanics as the blue mech searched for a song.

Without saying anything, Soundwave’s speakers gave a small hiss of static before the steady rhythm of percussions began to filter through and then the suave harmonics of Frank Sinatra began to fill the now empty room.

Jazz let out a breath of a laugh. “ _Fly Me To The Moon_?”

A nod. “Soundwave, knows this to be one of Jazz’s favorites.”

“It is,” Jazz murmured, curling against the mech as another rumble, stronger and longer, began to slowly tear the room apart. The strong arms curled a little tighter around him and Jazz realized they were the only thing keeping him from falling apart. “Oh, babe, it definitely is.”

Jazz’s life had begun with music. It was only fitting that it would come to an end with music as well.

~~~

“I need to leave. Immediately.”

Ratchet let out a sigh of frustration and shook his helm. “You’re leaving when I say you’re cleared to be out and about.” He reached down to wrestle the ebony feline to lay flat on the slab, using just enough force to overpower without exacerbating her healing injuries.

Ravage was proving to be one of his most unruly patients yet and that was saying something considering he’d once had to confine the twins to the medbay once for an entire decaorn during the war. She spoke a big game, threatening to sneak out when Ratchet’s back was turned and once even going as far to threaten to douse his personal enex stores with sedatives. But every time Ratchet came in to check on her, she was still lying on the cot, sometimes asleep, sometimes not but always with her tail flicking impatiently over the edge.

Her injury had taken a toll on her and though she knew it, her pride kept her from acknowledging it.

“Things would heal a lot faster if you did the exercises I told you to do,” Ratchet huffed. “Your internal systems need steady repetitive movements to keep them from scarring imperfectly.”

The feline hissed as the medic pressed two fingers on her lower belly, just underneath the patch that hid the nasty bullet injury from the world. Though her optics stared at him with a burning fervor, she said nothing in turn.

Sighing, Ratchet said, “it still hurts, doesn’t it?”

“No.”

A little more exerted pressure had Ravage yowling and Ratchet grimaced at her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It only hurts when you press on it.” Ravage retorted.

Ratchet replied, “it’s not supposed to. If you have tenderness around the injury, that means the nanites haven’t been doing their job repairing the surrounding alloy.” He pulled his hand back, grimacing slightly. “You know that’s a symptom of rust infection, don’t you?”

For a moment, Ravage seemed ready to argue against the idea that she could get any kind of rust but something seemed to tamper her ire and she settled back against the slab with an audible ventilation cycle. “I just want to get out of here,” she murmured. She sounded far sadder than Ratchet could remember and his optic ridges furrowed in worry.

“Is Soundwave okay?” It was rare but sometimes symbionts fed off of the energy their host mechs exuded and if it was negative, the repercussions were even more so. Ratchet had found it odd that the telepath hadn’t come back to see Ravage for the past orns but the feline had assured him that everything was fine. Soundwave was busy taking care of a few personal matters and would be back in no time.

Now, Ravage was an excellent liar but Ratchet’s finely-honed instincts allowed him to sniff out a lie quicker than a turbohound. And the way Ravage’s optics flickered with uncertainty every now and then, coupled with her slow recovery, indicated that something was going on.

And it most definitely wasn’t good.

Ratchet knew better than to pry. There was a certain level of openness between them and he knew better than to do anything to jeopardize it. Whatever was happening, chances were that he was useless to do much anyway.

“Yes,” the feline answered, glancing away. “He’s okay.”

Bullscrap, of course. Ratchet pretended he believed her and picked up her paw to administer a mild sedative so he could begin his check-up of her wound. She was completely complacent, only flinching when the needle pierced the soft alloy between her toes, and staring at anything but him.

He had no qualms with that. A quiet patient was always better than one who tried pulling him into unnecessary small talk. Pulling up a small wheeled-tray, Ratchet picked up a pair of small forceps and carefully grabbed the tip of the patch. With slow and careful precision, he peeled it back and exposed the carefully sealed wound. It’s edges were still soft from recent soldering and it was a couple shades lighter than Ravage’s original paint.

With his free hand, Ratchet picked up a thin probe and glided the tip over the pair, making sure it wasn’t tearing or smearing. It held up nicely to his ministrations and though it was more behind than he’d liked, it wasn’t infected.

That meant that whatever was causing the slow recovery wasn’t physical.

Satisfied, Ratchet retreated the probe and reattached the patch, stepping back to put his used tools in another container that marked them to be cleaned. “Today’s your lucky day,” he said to the feline, wiping his hands with a clean mesh cloth. “No sign of any rust infections.”

“Thank Primus,” Ravage said sarcastically. But her ears perked up a bit as she lifted her head to stare at the patch and a glimmer of relief shone in her scarlet optics. Upon catching Ratchet’s optics, she gave a small shrug on her shoulder. A gesture of thanks, Ratchet had come to learn.

“You should refuel,” Ratchet said, throwing the now soiled cloth into a small bin at his feet. “Keep your strength up for you, ahem, future escapades.” He walked over to a small line of shelves and keyed them open, ignoring the other colored cubes that were stored inside and picking out a single pale pink one. It smelled like antiseptic when Ratchet managed to crack it open and Ravage made a face when he pushed it next to her face.

“What the frag is that?”

“Medical mid-grade.” Ratchet replied seamlessly. “Infused with minerals and additives to help speed along your nanites’ repairs.” He nudged it a little closer towards her with his knuckles. “Doesn’t taste as bad as it smells, I promise.”

Ravage stared at it with mistrust for a few moments before letting out a raspy sigh. Slowly, carefully, she hoisted herself into a somewhat upright position and pulled the cube with one paw towards herself. Nestled next to her chest, she bent her helm to give it tentative taste and smacked her lips a couple times, testing.

A hum escaped her. “Tastes like a knock-off version of Nightmate Fuel.” She said, unimpressed. But before Ratchet could ask her how she knew what Nightmare Fuel tasted like, the feline was drinking the cube like someone starved. Holding his glossa, Ratchet watched her eat, noting with amusement how she was careful not to get her nose wet.

He’d tried his best to be as attentive as possible to the symbiont, moving his schedule around so that every one of her check-ups and fueling times would be done by him exclusively. She mistrusted easily, especially when injured, and Ratchet’s assistants held little tact when it came to dealing with former war veterans.

But with the current social uproar, business had gone up and Ratchet’s once quiet clinic was now constantly buzzing with activity. Mechs who had no money for fancy medical centers showed up at his door with injuries that would have heralded intense scrutiny and maybe even the presence of Enforcers. Carrying mechs caught at the wrong place at the wrong time were a dime a dozen now, begging him to do what he could.

There was no longer any peace. On its worst days, it was like being in the war all over again. Bots were dying under his hands and the smell of life fluids clung to him like some macabre perfume.

Sometimes he hadn’t been able to attend to Ravage and she’d chased away everyone who dared step foot into her room, even those who simply wished to help her refuel. So, when Ratchet finally arrived to give Ravage her rations, she was almost always ravenous.

No doubt something else to add to the list of reasons why she wasn’t up and about already.

A small knock sounded on the door and both whirled their heads to watch as an emergency override was keyed in and Moonracer’s tiny frame occupied the doorway. Ravage’s ears pressed back against her head and she let out a hiss.

Ratchet stepped forward, armor flaring in annoyance. “Moonracer! What have I told you about--!”

“You weren’t answering your comms!” The femme said, sounding out of breath. Her normally wide optics were completely round and her hands shook as she gripped the edges of the doorway.

“You know I turn off my comms when I’m with patients,” Ratchet said succinctly. “It’s protocol.”

Moonracer swallowed hard. “Sorry, sir—uh, Ratchet.” She shook her helm, giving herself a moment to catch her words. “But there’s something really important I need to talk to you about.”

“Can it wait?”

The femme stared at him uneasily. “No. It can’t.”

Something in her voice caught Ratchet’s attention and after a moment of hesitation, he offered the feline a brief apology and followed the former sharpshooter out into the hall. Moonracer didn’t turn to make sure he was following her, all but running through the twisting halls until they emerged in the now empty lobby. They’d closed the clinic for a couple joors so nobody was supposed to in the room.

But there were two mechs standing next to the reception desk. One Ratchet didn’t know but he recognized the familiar red frame of Sideswipe even before the frontliner turned to look at him, those wide blue optics brimming with relief.

“Ratchet!” He ran towards him, grabbing his hands and gripping them for all he was worth. “Oh, thank fragging Primus you’re here!” Ratchet didn’t even have time to ask why Sideswipe’s hands were wet with what looked suspiciously like Energon or what he was doing there so late in the orn before he was being forcefully dragged out of his own fragging clinic.

The other mech pushed open the doors as Ratchet was herded outside and any retort that Ratchet was about to say died in his intake when he saw the scene in front of them. The sleek white shuttle was one Ratchet was familiar with but his suspicions were proven to be unfruitful when the doors opened and out wheeled out a cot, it’s wheels squeaking, with a bundle of sheets and wires sprouting of it that made it look anything but mechanoid. A large blue mech had his hands on top of it, seemingly holding everything together, and another green mech was holding the connected Energon packets up with one hand.

A strong smell, acrid and sharp, pierced them air upon their arrival and Ratchet took a step back straight into Sideswipe’s front. He turned to look at the frontliner, confused. “Sideswipe?”

“It’s Jazz.” Sideswipe said, voice cracking. “Ratchet. It’s him. You’ve gotta help him...”

Ratchet didn’t need any further explanation than that. Immediately he went towards the cot and shooed the blue mech away, unfurling what looked suspiciously like berth sheets, but he hadn’t even begun before his hands were gripped by the wrists.

“Don’t.” The blue mech warned.

“Why the slag not?” Ratchet retorted, snatching his hands out of the other mech’s grip.

“Because the sheets are the only thing keeping Jazz and his bitlet sterilized.” The green mech answered, voice steady.

Ratchet gaped at him for a moment before snapping back into character. “Okay,” he pointed towards the open door of his clinic. “Help me wheel him into the trauma bay. It’s the large blue doors on the left.” Without wasting any time, all three of them began to push inside, following Ratchet’s instructions until they emerged into a brightly lit room surrounded by sealed cabinets, fluorescent overhead projectors and trays upon trays of sterile instruments.

The bundle was hoisted onto a bigger and more secure cot that allowed Ratchet more room to work. He dipped his hands into a sterile solution he kept on hand for any emergencies and gestured for the blue mech to help him unfurl the mess of textiles.

“Tell me everything,” Ratchet ordered, carefully following the mech’s patterns.

“It’s Tonic,” the blue mech said briefly before acquiescing. “The patient’s a carrier mech that went into premature emergence as a result of external physical trauma. He’s missing his emergence coding so the sparkling began to tear its way free out of the gestation chamber.” He paused. “Emergency measures were taken in an effort to save his life.”

Ratchet didn’t pause. “What measures, exactly?”

When Tonic didn’t answer, the green bot stepped in from his place on the outskirts of the room. “Assistant emergence surgery.”

Cold stony silence met those words as Ratchet peeled off the final sheet to reveal the sticky and dented frame of one of his closest comrades. Jazz’s face was eerily calm, visor offline and face void of a single crease to indicate he was in pain. But what caught Ratchet’s attention the most was the uneven tear that transversed the saboteur’s abdomen and the tiny little helm and shoulder that were sticking out from it. In the bright white light, Ratchet could make out the scrunched face of the tiny sparkling, of the blue visor that covered its optics and the hauntingly familiar helm shape and kibble that it sported.

The bacta tube, which connected carrier and creation, was still connected to its nose and mouth, Energon gurgling around the edges as it let tiny weak ventilations. It twitched, reacting to the sudden cold of the room.

It was like something out of a scene from a human horror film.

Ratchet’s hands shook as he reached out to touch Jazz’s helm, sensitive hands looking for even a minute sign of consciousness.

There were none. But before Ratchet could try scanning Jazz for anything else, the sparkling’s body lurched and it began to writhe violently, as if trying to finish what it started.

Ratchet did the only thing that he could. Abandoning Jazz, he pushed Tonic out of the way and pulled up a tray of surgical equipment, yelling at the green mech to go into the next room and fetch an incubation chamber before beginning to work on freeing the sparkling from its carrier. Ratchet had little experience with sparklings but he knew enough to adjust the sensitivity in his hands and use the smallest tools in his inventory. With one hand, he supported its helm and used the other completely open the gestation cavity and make room for him to pull it out the rest of the way. More fluid began to spill out, making Ratchet’s hands slip a few times, but Ratchet ignored it and focused on getting the tiny creature out.

“Get me some mesh cloths!” Tonic moved to fufill his order, handing him a medium sized cloth that was big enough to wrap around the sparkling’s frame. The green mech burst through the doors at the same time, wheeling the square clear isolette that Ratchet had sparsely had to use in his entire medical career, already booted up. It was set at the foot of the cot they were working on and Ratchet quickly moved to place the tiny creature inside on the gel-padded surface.

It made no noise as he manually disengaged the bacta tube, tiny face listless as he used the cloth to wipe the glassy fluids caking almost every inch of its frame. Beside him, he could see Tonic and the green mech working on Jazz and though Ratchet wanted nothing more than to do everything himself, he knew he needed the assistance.

Besides, Ratchet had been trained to always assist the bot with the higher chance of surviving. At the moment, the sparkling was his main priority.

Quickly, Ratchet wiped its tiny frame down as best he could and quickly began to attach the monitors and ventilator to it, taking note of the tiny pulses of Energy that soon began to register on the monitor screens as soon as it was plugged in. As soon as Ratchet switched the automatic ventilator on, the sparkling’s tiny chest rose and fell rather dramatically for the first few pumps but then it quickly settled into steady rhythm. A few injections of fluids and additives quickly got the thready spark-pulse following suit and Ratchet pulled his hands back with a shaky sigh.

But he didn’t feel relief. Why was it so quiet? Normally sparklings were loud and obnoxious, testing their ventilations by screaming for their creators or wailing loud enough to make even the Unmaker cringe. The little bot was completely silent, however, occasionally twitching, with a visor that refused to boot up--

The sound of erratic beeping quickly pulled his attention back to the saboteur lying on the table and the two mechs that were now standing still as statues on either side. Ratchet whirled on them in aghast. “What the slag are you doing?!” He yelled, running over to gauge the readings on the monitors. Jazz’s Spark was beating erratically and his frame temperature had risen to the point that it was far too dangerous to even think of sticking IVs into his main lines.

He remained as motionless as he’d begun and the steady deluge of fluids had slowed down to a thready trickle. Acting on instinct, Ratchet began to administer every single solution for overheating that his medical knowledge had to provide, ignoring the looks that both mechs were throwing at him as he seemed to move of anything but his own free volition. He ignored the erratic beeping, even when it rose and fell into that ominous singular beep.

“Ratchet,” Tonic said, voice heavy. “He’s gone.” The blue bot exchanged a glance with the other green mech, who simply shrugged his shoulders and mournfully shook his helm.

The red and white mech continued to work, reconnecting more Energon lines and focusing on fixing the internal damage inside the mech’s torso. Even as he reached deep into the other mech, arms up to their elbows in internals, he kept the same stoicism in place. Because he had to.

Because he couldn’t let this be true.

There was a tiny sparkling in this room and he would be damned before he let it remain alone in this world. It deserved the opportunity to be happy, frag it, and Ratchet wasn’t about to let his apathy orns ago affect its life.

It was that which kept his hands from shaking, even as time flashed by like a bolt of lightning and his medical instincts kept on telling him that what the others were saying was true and that he was doing nothing but prolonging the inevitable.

When Tonic reached out to place a hand on his shoulder, Ratchet had shrugged him off and ordered him and the other mech to leave the room. And only when the door closed behind them did Ratchet dare stop his work. His tools clattered noisily on the floor as he took an uneasy step back, hands shaking, and observed what now lay before him.

He’d tapered off the main leaks in Jazz’s internals, temporary fixes but they’d been enough to get the fluid leakage to halt. Then he’d focused on sealing the wound close to prevent the possibility of infection, sloppy but effective, work he’d have to fix when he had time.

But Jazz was still unresponsive. His Spark...

Ratchet grimaced, thinking, before an idea slowly trickled into his head. It was wild and inane, something best suited for a creative thinker like First Aid, but Ratchet had run out of options. He didn’t think.

He ran to one of his storage cabinets and yanked the doors open, scrummaging until he found what he was looking for. The jumpstarter cables were usually reserved for transferring energy output between nonautonomous machinery but even in this situation, the theory held true.

From what Ratchet recalled, Jazz’s spark was isomeric-negative, just like he was.

Plugging the cables on his chassis was a daunting task; Ratchet had to call upon his understanding of autonomy and Spark theory to map out the best access points for the transfer but in the end he managed to create a decent circuit. All that was left was connecting to Jazz.

Ratchet’s hands shook a little as they hovered over the saboteur and a small part told him he probably should call on someone to observe and make sure he didn’t accidentally fry the both of them. But he shook that thought off and focused.

He cycled a ventilation, narrowed his optics and made contact.

There was nothing at first, but then a flash of white light and heat like Ratchet had never felt before. It surged through him like a bolt of lightning, coursing through every circuit in his frame and turning his struts to jelly. But he stood upright, rooted to the spot and then time seemed to stop, speed up, and slowly taper off into the present.

Ratchet gritted his teeth and pulled his hands back, cable ends in hand, flailing for a bit before falling flat on his aft. He let out a small breath and reached up to rub his now aching helm with one of his hands. Slag, he was never doing that again. His optics were still running haywire and he wasn’t sure if the odd metallic taste in his mouth was residue of the charge or if his glossa had somehow melted in his mouth.

But then suddenly, a small beep sounded. Louder than the soft rhythmic of the one connected to the bitlet. Ratchet glanced up and once his optics focused on the monitor screen above him, he felt them widen in surprise. Scrambling to his feet, he made sure that what he was reading was correct and a heavy sigh of relief escaped him as the beeps slowly became a constant sound in the room.

“You’re okay,” he breathed, grinning as he glanced down at the saboteur’s still face. “You’re gonna be okay...”

Jazz remained motionless and Ratchet’s Spark sank a little as he realized what those implications meant. He’d been under for Primus knows how long, his frame filtering all its energy to keeping the tiny creation alive and it’d reached its breaking point. His Spark was beating...but there was no telling how much damage his processor had sustained as a result of the trauma.

Each of Ratchet’s movements was mechanical as he forced himself to do the deep scan he’d intended to do at the beginning and when the readings displayed themselves on the tiny screen embedded in his arm, Ratchet’s uneasy smile fell completely.

There was no processor activity.

Someone pounded roughly on the door and Ratchet didn’t have time to tell whoever it was to go away because the door burst open and in strolled Sideswipe, somehow managing to look as battered as Jazz. Ratchet surmised it was the look of fear in his optics or maybe it was the shock that registered on his face when his gaze landed on the tiny little lifeform in the incubator next to the cot.

Carefully, he walked over and stopped just far enough so that he could look without invading. “Is that...?”

“Yes,” Ratchet replied tiredly. He limped over to the isolette, reading the monitors to make sure everything was alright. Like its creator, it was very still but there were registers of small cognizant wavelengths that indicated it had a chance. “Jazz’s creation.”

Sideswipe observed it, the shock settling into a grimace as it took in the familiar hue and shape of the little bot’s helm and torso. “Never imagined them to be the kind to have creations,” the red frontliner muttered, low enough so that only Ratchet could hear.

“Nobody did,” Ratchet replied, sticking one of his hands into the holes in the isolette and softly caressed the sparkling’s cheek. It twitched, moving a little towards the warmth of Ratchet’s finger. Now that he looked a little closer, the little one was a dead ringer for its carrier. The visor, though bearing the shape of its sire’s, appeared to be a bright blue hue like Jazz.

Sideswipe glanced towards Jazz, face stony. “Is he gonna be okay?”

Ratchet hesitated. “I’m...not sure.”

“What does that mean?”

The medic sighed, abandoning the calm serenity of the sparkling to face the frontliner. “His frame’s still in pretty bad shape and I managed to restart his Spark. But his processor’s badly damaged.”

Sideswipe had been in enough medbays to know that damaged processors were sometimes worse than Spark injuries. He grimaced slightly, shaking his helm. “I told Tonic to take care of Jazz first. To leave the sparkling and focus on Jazz.” He paused. “But Tonic didn’t listen.”

“Tonic did the right thing,” Ratchet murmured. “He focused on the bot who had a bigger possibility of surviving and no medic will even fault him for that.”

The red mech winced. “I choose to let a sparkling die, Ratchet. Asked for it.” He reached up to rub a stray mark on his face with the back of his hand. “I thought that’s what Jazz would have wanted.”

“Neither of us knew him as well as we thought. You can’t fault yourself for assuming wrong.” Ratchet said, giving Sideswipe a gentle nudge with his shoulder as he brushed past him to finish stabilizing Jazz. The red frontliner stood with his hands clasped in front of him, blue optics watching with rapt attention as Ratchet hooked Jazz up to a ventilator and dressed his wounds. When it came time to clean all the Energon and fluids from his plating, Sideswipe stepped in to help. The red mech fell into an easy rhythm, applying just enough pressure and wrist movement to clean without injuring.

Practice no doubt gleaned from years tending to his brother, no doubt.

When they finished, the mech on the table was almost unrecognizable. Small and vulnerable, completely covered in wires that hid him from view. It made both of them uneasy.

“My clinic is miles from the entry port,” Ratchet suddenly said. “You had the Assembly right there. Why bring him all the way over here?”

Sideswipe shuffled his feet, uneasy. He said nothing for a moment. “It didn’t feel right.”

“What?”

The frontliner shrugged, glancing at the medic. “Call me paranoid but...I just had this feeling. You’re one of the only mechs that isn’t wrapped up in whatever the frag is going on and Jazz trusts you. If anyone was going to save his life, truly save it, it was you.” He shrugged again, indicating that he wasn't comfortable discussing things any further.

Ratchet, like any good medic, knew better than to pry. So, the two of them settled into an uneasy silence, listening to the silent beeps: preparing for the worst and hoping for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a chapter I wrote as a sort of early holiday treat of sorts. I hope you all have a happy long weekend, regardless of whether it's spent with family or not. And to all retail workers on shift this black friday, i love and cherish and admire you and you deserve nothing but the absolute best.


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